


Loose Ends

by amaruuk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not (Terribly) Explicit, Pining, Slow Burn, character peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: They helped avoid the End Time, and now Aziraphale and Crowley have the opportunity to explore their changed relationship. Are they still bound to their respective sides? And what of their enemies, who will neither forget nor forgive?"Right." Aziraphale edged around the back of the chair, stopping when he stood on Hastur's right hand side. Inch by inch he raised the flask until it was centered above Hastur's head. The demon craned his neck to look up at him, but Aziraphale dared not meet those eyes. From across the room, Crowley watched keenly, a hungry tension running through his body. Aziraphale whispered, "Please forgive me."He tipped the flask and the first drops spilled out.





	1. Breathing Space

"That was lovely. Thank you, Crowley. My treat, next time." 

The afternoon light had changed. It was late summer, and the trees were shedding their leaves, golden and red. Fumes from the road hung closer to the ground, held down by the cooling upper air. Aziraphale turned to his friend and smiled wryly. "It's been a long day, what with one thing and another," he said, with magnificent understatement. "I am off to the shop. You?"

Crowley agreed, "It has been a long day. In fact, no telling, really, just how long given the time difference between Heaven and Earth. Or, in your case, Hell and Earth."

"Shh." Aziraphale glanced about uneasily.

"Really, angel?" Crowley drawled. "You hear stranger things on the streets of London hourly."

Aziraphale winced. "Just a little … cautious, I suppose." He collected himself and drew in a breath. "Are you off home?"

"I," Crowley said deliberately, "am going to collect my car, and go on a long—very long—drive."

"It was just fine, you know," Aziraphale assured him. "As good as new, when I saw it this morning."

"You could come along." Crowley said it casually, a shift of his shoulders to indicate that it made no difference either way. But he was looking at Aziraphale intently, as if he could persuade him through sheer will alone.

Aziraphale hesitated. "And where are you driving?" He gave himself a shake. "I really should see to my bookshop."

"Shop looked good as new, this morning." Crowley echoed Aziraphale's words, but regarded him seriously. "Haven't decided. You decide."

"It's late in the day."

"I have excellent night vision."

Aziraphale thought about his bookshop: Crowley had mentioned changes but nothing dire. In truth, he did not want to be alone. The morning's events had left him feeling discomfited, tainted. "Oh, all right," he said, as if making a serious concession. "Paris. What do you say to Paris?"

Aziraphale guessed that Crowley must be feeling much the same, for he simply nodded and said, "Paris, it is." Crowley raised his arm and a black cab stopped at the curb as if appearing out of nowhere. With a small flourish, he opened the door and waved Aziraphale inside. 

* * *

They drove in a fug of companionable silence, broken only now and then for remarks on the weather, the roads, the advent of autumn, the state of the car, the pleasure of their most recent meal. As they neared Folkestone, Aziraphale said, "They'll figure it out."

"Yup." Crowley slowed the car for an intersection. "We should make a wager: which side susses first. My money's on Hastur. He's like a dog with a bone."

"Don't underestimate Uriel. Maybe even Sandalphon. I'm pretty sure Gabriel can't be bothered—though he'll happily encourage some sort of retribution." Aziraphale sounded matter-of-fact, but his eyes were shadowed.

They were a short distance from joining the queue to board Le Shuttle train, when Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "Is it important, Paris?"

Aziraphale met his gaze. "Not at all."

With a wrench of the wheel, Crowley turned the Bentley back onto the A2. The light was gone by the time they reached the A256 and headed east and north, traveling at speed. Aziraphale fixed his gaze on the side of the road, though sometimes he kept his attention on Crowley as he expertly navigated the twists and turns of the motorway. Anything rather than watch the road ahead. After about an hour, he asked, "Where are we headed?"

"Reculver. Ever been there?"

"For a very brief time," Aziraphale replied, after a moment of reflection. "During the last war. The military were testing bombs along the coastline. Even though they were not 'live,' I made sure they stayed clear of the locals. Especially the towers of what remains of the church there."

Crowley grinned. "Huh. I was one of those dropping the bombs. Of course I reported that they were live. One of them might even have had a bit of sizzle."

"I remember that night." Aziraphale gave him a quelling look. "Should've known."

A short while later, they wandered the ruins, buffeted by the sea breeze, the temperature dropping rapidly around them. Aziraphale stood for a while, gazing out over the dark water, the ruins of ancient stone on either side of him. "It was rather awful, Hell," he remarked.

"Yeah." Crowley murmured agreement. "Hell is, well, _Hell_. But, then, the Mercy of Heaven wasn't much in evidence, either."

Aziraphale turned to him, gauging his response. "They murdered one of their own—just to test the 'efficacy' of the water."

"Which one?" Crowley asked curiously.

"A creature called Usher?"

"Oh, him. Nasty little bugger." Crowley shrugged off Aziraphale's silent reproof. "Not exactly one of God's creatures. He bit me once. Took days for the itching to stop."

"There was an _audience_. And _Michael_ brought the Holy Water."

"Yeah, you said. One of my lot brought up a load of Hell Fire." Crowley curled his lip dismissively. "To Heaven." He said nothing for a moment, then went on brightly, "Was worth it, though, just to see their expressions when the fire didn't do the job they intended."

Aziraphale looked back out to sea, shivering. "Let's go," he said. "A cocoa would be very welcome right now."

"Come on, then." Crowley gestured toward the carpark, where the Bentley waited. "We'll find something on the way."

* * * 

The Bentley pulled up outside the bookshop well after midnight. "Are you sure you don't want to stay at my place again?" Crowley asked, offhand.

Aziraphale gave him a look. "You don't have to protect me, Crowley."

"Maybe it's the other way round." Crowley's lenses glinted, reflecting the light from the streetlamp.

"You're welcome to come in," Aziraphale offered. "A nightcap?"

"Yes!" Crowley hopped out of the Bentley, switched off the headlamps with a snap of his fingers, and followed Aziraphale onto the step in front of the shop. 

Aziraphale hesitated as he opened the door. "It all burned?" It hurt even to say the words. "All of it?"

"I didn't stay to the end," Crowley replied. "But it looked to be going that way."

They moved into the entryway. Aziraphale paused to turn on the lights and to take a moment to cast his eyes over his precious collection. He spotted numerous changes at once. Intrigued, he went directly to one of the shelves and drew out a volume for closer inspection. "Go ahead." He pointed Crowley toward the back room. "I'll just be a second."

A few moments later Aziraphale came in through the door, eyes brilliant. As he settled in his favorite chair, Crowley raised a bottle of wine. Aziraphale noted the name with interest and gave a quick smile of approval. Crowley poured.

Aziraphale sipped slowly, smiled his appreciation. "Not one of mine, but this is very good."

"Better. I've had it before, and it wasn't as fine as this. And your books?"

"Some lovely additions. A few changes—all I could see at first glance. But all very acceptable."

Crowley raised his glass. "To the Anti—"

Aziraphale grimaced; Crowley raised an interrogative brow. "Maybe we should just thank Adam Young. And hope that he is _just_ Adam Young now."

With a half-smile, Crowley tipped his head. "To _just_ Adam Young."

"Right." Aziraphale set his empty glass on the table and rubbed his hands together. "My inventory needs updating. No time like the present to get started."

Crowley pushed his glass next to Aziraphale's and stood. "Don't get too excited. You may discover your inventory has already been updated."

Consternation crossed Aziraphale's face. "Well, in that case," he said with a widening smile, his whole face alight, "I will have to start reading the new works. Best to be familiar with one's collection in order to give informed advice for purchasing."

Crowley snorted but did not explain when Aziraphale gave him a look. "I think," he said, "a nice long nap." He ambled toward the door with Aziraphale following. They stood together in the open doorway, London fitfully moving and slumbering around them, the early morning air laden with the weight of night. There were a few things Aziraphale wanted to say, but he knew Crowley would only scoff. So he smiled and gazed warmly upon his friend. "Good night, Crowley."

"G'night, Aziraphale," Crowley replied.

Aziraphale watched as the demon made his way to the car. "Sweet dreams," he called out. Crowley replied with a lazy salute. The angel lingered as the car roared off into the darkness. He felt his eyes begin to moisten just a little, and blinked hard to dry them. "Pull yourself together, angel," he told himself, and resolutely closed the door against the night. 

* * *

A little over a week later, late in the morning, Aziraphale perused his stacks, a sheaf of print-outs in his hand. Every day he continued to find new and exciting treasures. Not that any of these particular volumes had ever agitated his interest before, but all were in pristine condition, with rarely even a hint of foxing. Interestingly, these new additions had sparked considerable interest in his clientele. Though they were as rare and valuable as the rest of his collection, he found it less painful to part with them, perhaps because he had not collected them himself. As would-be buyers discovered they could actually make away with a purchase now and again, word seemed to spread. A number of people were browsing now, their backs to the sun coming in through the tall side windows, while Aziraphale himself compared the items in his inventory—Crowley had been right about that—with the items on the shelves.

Deeply immersed in his task, it took him a moment to realize that his customers—all of them—were making their way to the door. "Need to renew my oyster," one muttered to herself; another, "Goodness, how could I forget that it's Wednesday?"; and yet another, "Surely, it's not my turn to pick up cat litter?"

Equally curious and apprehensive, Aziraphale tread slowly after them, sweeping a seeing look over his shoulder to confirm that they really all had gone out. He stopped on the front step—and there, on the curb, was the undoubted source of their sudden motivation: Crowley stood leaning against the Bentley, arms folded across his chest, patiently waiting.

After pulling the door closed behind him and automatically listening for the snick of the lock, Aziraphale made his way down the steps. "Did you just 'invite' all of my customers to leave?" he asked.

'It worked then."

"I was in the middle of cataloguing," Aziraphale complained.

"I'm sure you've long since ticked all the boxes."

"Well, yes, of course." He leaned nearer. "But new things," he whispered confidingly, "continue to arrive daily." 

"Still in the inventory?"

Aziraphale raised his brows meaningfully. "_Yes._"

"Could be worse, right?" Crowley pulled open the passenger-side door. "Sounds like all the work is being done for you. Want a break?"

"Why not. I missed my elevenses. Are we talking about lunch?" He took a peek at the watch on Crowley's wrist. "It is about time."

"Exactly what we are talking about." Crowley gestured toward the backseat of the car. "Shall we go?"

Aziraphale slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, craning around to see what Crowley had indicated. His eyes widened. "That's a picnic basket." He directed his smile at Crowley. "Really?"

"Seem to recall your suggesting it a few years back."

It took a moment, but Aziraphale unearthed the memory: the two of them, sitting in this very car, a tartan flask delicately passed between them. "So I did. Fancy your remembering. Fifty-two years later."

"But who's counting?" He ignored Aziraphale's squeak as he floored the gas pedal and the Bentley leapt away from the curb.

For a brilliant, early autumn day, Hampstead Heath was surprisingly uncrowded. They claimed a tree shading a small, level stretch of grass. Crowley produced a pale blue tartan rug from the hamper. With Aziraphale's help, he squared it, half in the sun and half out, and set the hamper in the shade. He gestured toward it, wordlessly inviting Aziraphale to inspect the contents. After removing and carefully folding his jacket, Aziraphale readily complied. He lifted out small plates of rich patés; Scotch eggs; olives; pasta; soft and hard rolls; and, small cakes, fruit, and cheeses for afters. Naturally, there was also an excellent choice of wine, which Crowley took charge of, skillfully removing the cork and pouring two glasses half full.

Quite some time later, Aziraphale hummed, happily. He nudged a small dish of paté toward Crowley. "Lovely—you should try it."

Crowley obeyed, using the tip of his finger as a scoop and sucking the smear off with a murmur of appreciation. He held up another dish in silent invitation, but Aziraphale raised his palms and shook his head.

"Not another bite." He moved nearer to the tree and sat against it, hands loosely linked in his lap, legs sprawled out in front of him, exhaling with drowsy delight. "If I were of a mind, now would be the perfect time for a nap."

"Walk on the wild side, angel," Crowley grinned.

Feeling utterly wanton, Aziraphale unlaced his shoes and pulled them off. "It is unusual," he remarked, as he set them alongside his jacket and took in their surroundings in a lazy sweep, "that there are so few people here today. You wouldn't have anything to do with that?"

Crowley, who had been propped on his elbow beside him, flopped onto his back, and laid his head in Aziraphale's lap. "They'll find their way back," he said cryptically.

Aziraphale shifted his leg slightly to accommodate the press of Crowley's weight, heavy where he lay against his thigh. "Comfortable, are you?" A wide band of shadow covered them now thanks to the movement of the sun. In the branches overhead, along with a gently inquisitive breeze, birds hopped from twig to twig, occasionally stopping to lift a song toward the sky. 

"Quite." He was the picture of indolence: arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. "Quite quite," he sighed, and fell promptly to sleep. Smiling down at him with an almost unbearable affection, Aziraphale allowed himself to relax, too, resting one arm on Crowley's chest—the demon gave a low murmur, smacked his lips, but slumbered on—and plucking away a bit of pollen fluff that had fallen onto his hair.

His fingers lingered for a while, idly threading the hair at Crowley's temple. He was distracted by the slow advent of people, couples and families, who were acquiring their own patches of grass and sunshine, children chasing round them like small bouncy satellites. Aziraphale reached beside him into the folds of his jacket and withdrew a book that had not been there when he left the shop, along with his glasses. He sensed that this might be the last perfect day of the year, all bright sky, light breeze, and tranquil heat—and Crowley—and he intended to savor it.

* * *

"I think the bookshop is settling down," Aziraphale said at Crowley's side, a week later. "No new items in the last couple of days."

"The car, too," Crowley stated. It was late evening, the last of the day's heat rapidly giving way to a chill breeze. Leaves lay underfoot and colored the lawn in festive fall colors, fading orange, mottled red, and veined yellow. The ducks were fed, the park was closed. As they unhurriedly followed the path to the gate, Crowley went on, "Back to Tchaikovsky's 'Another One Bites the Dust,' and the rest of the classics."

Aziraphale suddenly stopped. "D'you hear that?" he asked, his voice hushed. "I think it's coming from over—" 

He set off with purpose toward an area thick with shrubs, guided by the muffled, but alarming noises emanating from behind them. He was a foot or two away when Crowley warned, "Angel, it's not what you thi—"

"Ah. So sorry. Don't mind me." Aziraphale backed away from the heavy growth of frangula, palms spread in apology. "Do carry on." His cheeks were flushed, and he rolled his eyes with embarrassment as he rejoined Crowley.

"Really—what did you think it was?" Crowley didn't try to hide his amusement.

Aziraphale blew out a breath. "An injured animal? An injured human? No matter. I doubt they even noticed me." Disregarding Crowley's coarse chuckle, he pointedly returned to their interrupted conversation. "So, do you think it's a good thing that everything seems to have gone back to normal?"

Crowley tucked his fingers in the small front pockets of his black denims. "The Forces of Hell don't talk to me out of my telly anymore. I'm perfectly fine with that."

Aziraphale slowed his steps to look back in the direction of the still moaning shrubs. "Contemplating a lecture?" Crowley asked. "Thou shalt not …."

"No. None of my business." But his expression was pained. "I had only a glimpse, but the grounds there are quite unsanitary."

"Hardy stock, humans," Crowley observed.

"Well, yes. They need to be, considering what they get up to." He realized Crowley was patiently waiting for him to decide whether he was going to go back and miracle away used needles and condoms or resume their conversation and their stroll. He heaved a sigh and chose the latter.

"Have you ever wondered," Crowley mused slowly, "about it?"

"It?" Aziraphale repeated. He pointed over his shoulder. "That?"

"What they get up to, yeah." Crowley clarified, "You know, intimate contact. Capital K Knowing. Sex."

"Of course," Aziraphale replied with wary honesty. "They sometimes make it hard to ignore." He clasped his hands behind his back, to all appearances completely at ease. "Early days, they were often quite uninhibited in where, when, how, and with whom—or even what—they got up to it."

Crowley smirked in agreement. "Yeah." And then he said, "Ever wonder what it's like?" He turned his head and looked directly into Aziraphale's eyes.

Aziraphale had seen that glint before: Crowley was enjoying the conversation. Perhaps too much. "Other than messy?" His lofty disinterest sounded false even to his own ears. He went on more naturally, "I imagine I have thought about it. A little." Aziraphale felt heat spread into his face again and was grateful for the dimming light. "I suppose, you—being a demon—have actually—"

Crowley cut him off. "Nope."

"Really?" Aziraphale did not hide his surprise, and barely managed to conceal his sudden and profound happiness.

"Not my area of expertise," Crowley explained. "It's my job—it _was_ my job—to stir things up. Bit of temptation here, bit of naughtiness there."

"But," Aziraphale proceeded with some caution, "isn't seduction a form of temptation?"

"You _have_ been thinking about it," Crowley said interestedly, a response that Aziraphale found unsettling. "I might get—I _used_ to get—the process going, but the 'cubies do the actual job."

"'Cubies?" Aziraphale was not sure that he had heard correctly. "You've never mentioned them before."

"We've never had this conversation before," Crowley countered dryly. "Succubi. Incubi."

"Oh. Them."

"Yeah, poor devils. They're like honeybees: all work, work, work. Then they drop dead."

"Good Lord."

"Very sad," Crowley agreed. "Though it's said they die happy."

"Of course they do," Aziraphale said, with a touch of acid. He knew when he was being teased. Usually.

They had arrived at the gate, which was now locked. Crowley clicked his fingers, and the lock not only opened, but the gate swung wide to allow them to pass through. Another snap of his fingers, and the lock reset behind them.

Standing on the pavement outside the park, they waited at the curb for the green man. "I have thought about it, you know," Crowley said nonchalantly. The light changed, and the mass of pedestrians began to cross the street.

Aziraphale followed a half step behind. "Thought about 'it,' as in capital K Knowing?"

"Mm-mm," Crowley answered.

"Surely not with hu—?"

"Not humans. Of course not."

"That leaves very few choices. None of them good, really." In fact, the very idea, Aziraphale thought, was worrying.

"With one perfect exception." And this time Crowley raised his brows and looked meaningfully at Aziraphale.

Still running through the catalogue of earthly creatures in his mind, Aziraphale was slow to comprehend Crowley's words, and that look. "One—" He froze, stumbling when Crowley pulled him up and onto the opposite curb, and then out of the way of the crowd that was hurrying toward the nearby tube station a little further down the road. "You can't mean _me_?"

"Can't I?" Crowley said reasonably.

"But, I'm an angel," Aziraphale protested. "I'm not allowed to—to—"

"Consort?" 

"Exactly." They stood outside the window of a Tesco Express, oblivious of the humans scurrying around them. The sun had gone, and their faces were lit by the alien lights from a nearby streetlamp and the shop.

"Your lot already believe you do. Uriel went on about the 'boyfriend in leather and shades' until Gabriel told her to zip it. He seemed much more upset about your ruining Armageddon." At Aziraphale's confused expression—how could Crowley possibly know what Uriel had insinuated in that alley in Soho?—Crowley reminded him, "When they were waiting for Hell to deliver Fire. So they could kill 'you.'"

"Oh." 

"So." Crowley folded his arms across his chest, one brow arched rakishly. "I'd say you're free to consort all you like."

Stung to learn that Uriel had repeated her thoughts to Crowley, of all people, and feeling deeply wrong-footed because of it, Aziraphale spoke more sharply than he might otherwise have done. "You forget who you are tempting, Crowley." 

Utterly unfazed, Crowley bent nearer, his sunglasses half down his nose, hypnotic eyes exposed. "Are you? Even a little tempted?"

Aziraphale gave him his most crushing look, and struck off ahead. He wended his way through the thicket of people—several thickets, as they seemed to grow up out of the pavement—ignoring Crowley's question, and unapologetically leaving him behind.

Almost immediately the demon was again at his side. "Okay, I get it. Shocking suggestion." Crowley grabbed his arm again, but this time pulled him into the corner street. They just avoided collision with a black cab, probably owing more to Crowley's flicked wrist and the magic it summoned than the shrieking brakes of the cab. On the other side was a diner they frequented. With mouth close to Aziraphale's ear in order to be heard over the traffic, Crowley prophesied, "But you wait. Six thousand years from now, you'll decide it's a brilliant idea. Tea?"

A long queue huddled outside, shuffling under an inescapable drizzle that had begun unnoticed sometime during their walk and had now turned cold. Crowley did something—Aziraphale wasn't paying attention—and they were guided, unremarked, into the old establishment to their usual table near the back, where they could enjoy their meal in relative privacy.

When his tea arrived, Aziraphale absently warmed his hands around the mug. He watched as Crowley forked a bite of cake into his mouth. Wide, sensual lower lip, mobile but thinner upper one—he had studied that mouth, unthinkingly, as long as he had known the demon. And now it curled into a half-smile as he chewed and swallowed. A quick look into his eyes told Aziraphale that he was aware of his observation and was now observing the observer. Aziraphale immediately turned his attention to the contents of his mug.

"You going to make me eat all of this?" Crowley asked.

On the table between them was a plate with a slice of cake. Crowley had chosen a lemon sponge with a thick lemon curd at its center and a light icing on top. One of Aziraphale's favorites, which Crowley well knew. Aziraphale, who until this moment hadn't even noticed it, picked up his fork and cut himself a piece. "Did you mean it?" he asked.

Crowley said at once, "Yes." 

"Not a joke?"

The demon glowered, a daunting look that could make humans cross a street in a driving rain to avoid him. "Not a joke, angel."

The cake was moist, the filling tangy and perfectly lemony. It melted on his tongue, the flavor, the texture, and the sweetness combining to eradicate what remained of his ill-temper. He took another bite. "I have thought about it," Aziraphale admitted. "Once or twice." _Or a thousand times._

"With me?" Crowley asked, sounding suddenly strangely breathless. His fork was suspended over the table, lemon curd dribbling onto the table top. 

"Well, yes." 

"I've thought about it a _lot_," Crowley stated bluntly. "Us."

Aziraphale started to speak, decided he must choose his words with care, and said, judiciously, "There's no harm in thinking."

"No harm in doing, either. Two consenting whatevers. Big thing nowadays." Crowley set down his fork, cake forgotten. "So—?"

"So," Aziraphale echoed, his heart in his throat and his ears ringing. He should put an end to this conversation. He should stop this mad, terrifying _flirtation_. Instead, he found himself saying, "You must know, I have no experience. You would likely be very disappointed."

Reaching across the small table, Crowley took Aziraphale's hand, thumb rubbing against his palm. Startled was too weak a word for Aziraphale's response; it was more a lightning bolt of awareness. In all their years of friendship, touching was something they rarely did. He supposed they used their magic to much the same effect, and perhaps it was wise that they had done so. This was so much more immediate, so much more powerful.

"I wouldn't be disappointed," Crowley said, his fingers closing tightly around Aziraphale's hand. "Neither of us would. I'd see to that."

"That's very positive thinking. But—" Aziraphale struggled to express his concerns. To his surprise the least of them was the prospect of being with Crowley—his outsized response to the mere touch of his hand notwithstanding. The image of the couple in the shrubs came back to him, unbidden: the flesh, the moans, the urgent motion. His brain stuttered. Then, again, perhaps it wasn't the least of them.

"But?" Crowley prompted.

"Right." Better to focus on their joined hands, Crowley's fingers now meshed with his. "So, let's say, we were to do … this." He looked up. Their eyes met and held. "What then?"

Confusion flickered across Crowley's face. "Well, obviously," he shrugged, "we'd do it again."

"_Crowley._"

"What are you really asking, angel?"

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale fretted, "_If_ we do this, and _if_ you're disappointed—or I am, for that matter—how do we remain friends?"

Crowley's features relaxed. He kissed Aziraphale's knuckles, one after the other, making his insides turn liquid. "Idiot. We just do."

* * *

The streets glistened and the windows of the bookshop ran with moisture when they mounted the step to his door. Aziraphale's inconvenient heart was beating erratically again as he stopped alongside the demon. "Do you want to come in?" he asked, striving for normality, determined not to betray his nerves. 

"I really, really would." Crowley shoved his fingers into his pockets. "But I'm not going to."

Heat rushed to Aziraphale's head. "You've changed your mind?" Fractured thoughts spun in his mind. Was he disappointed or relieved? Disappointed, he thought, but surely a little relieved. Confused, mainly.

Crowley stepped right up to him, leaving no space between them. "Not a chance. But if I know you, you'll want to do some reading. Probably unearth your copy of _Mating Rituals of the 21st Century Demon_—if it exists."

"It doesn't." Aziraphale, suddenly giddy, was nevertheless quite sure of that. With a measure of daring, he added, "But perhaps I'll be the one to write it?"

Crowley's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Aziraphale, I want this to be—well, it can't be perfect, because we're us. But I've waited to have you for six thousand years, and—"

"_Have_ me?"

Moving impossibly closer, his breath warm on Aziraphale's ear, Crowley murmured, "To _know_ you." And then he tilted his head and kissed him. 

Crowley's mouth was soft, and as sensual as it appeared. It molded to his lips, yet moved with a gentle searching insistence. For all that, the kiss was chaste and lasted no more than seconds. Floating on sensation, Aziraphale was slow to open his eyes. Crowley stood tensely beside him. Aziraphale said, with a dazed half-smile, "Chapter One."

"Angel, I—" Crowley ground to a halt. "Right. If I don't go now, I won't." He moved toward the pavement, and only then seemed to discover that he was still holding Aziraphale's hand. With obvious reluctance, he released him.

"Good night, Crowley." Aziraphale folded his hands together, holding the tingle of the one in the cradle of the other. "If you change your mind, I'll be up. Reading."

His reply was a flash of bared teeth, a hissed, "You're killing me, angel," and a quick shake of the head. Crowley strode away, long legs moving fast across the pavement to the curb. Aziraphale waited in front of his door until the demon had climbed into the Bentley, waved, and hurtled off. It was the rain that drove him inside, at last, a trickle down his collar bringing him fully back to himself.

He did indeed have some reading to do.

* * *

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, rarely slept. He had given it a try a time or two, on Crowley's recommendation, but the few hours lost to oblivion had felt, to him, an utter waste. There was so much to do, and though he was an immortal being and—unless Heaven or Hell destroyed him—would live forever, he would never be able to do all that he wanted. Books, music, the arts, people; humanity constantly adding to all of that: who could keep up? When he was tired or simply chose to be still, he would relax in his favorite chair, a glass of wine or cocoa at hand, close his eyes and let his mind run free to review all that he had seen, heard, or touched. But mostly, here in the sanctuary of his bookshop, he read.

Sitting in the backroom, the table heaped with a variety of books, Aziraphale was now rereading—well, skimming—_Fanny Hill_. There were only so many ways to describe certain body parts in various degrees of engorgement, not to mention the process of insertion, but the author had done his very best to explore them all. The episode Aziraphale was interested in was brief and not really to his liking, even though there was a surprising amount of tenderness, even caring. Would Crowley want to do that to him? Would he want to do that to Crowley?

He added it to the stack of discards and chose another volume. Perhaps he should have started with this one. He had found it when he was gathering volumes for his research—a bit of a surprise as it was definitely not part of his original collection. The cover was arresting, featuring two men—two naked men—kissing. _Adam had chosen this?_

His phone rang, crashing into his thoughts.

Aziraphale considered it with some loathing. He hated its distraction at the best of times. And at this moment …. A quick glance at his clock showed that it was well past late, yet far from early. On the tenth ring, he snatched the handpiece from its cradle. "Yes?" he said, his voice deliberately unwelcoming.

"Aziraphale, I need your help."

"Crowley?" His heart lurched. He raised a hand to his chest as if to keep it in place. "What's wrong?"

"I've captured the demon Hastur. I need you to bring Holy Water."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Thought he'd sneak up on me, the bastard. But I've been expecting him."

"Oh. Of course." Aziraphale continued cautiously, "He's … contained?"

"Tied up. Proper binding. But he's strong, lover. If anyone can break free, it's Hastur. You gotta hurry."

_Lover._

"Right." Aziraphale spoke slowly, his mind all at once crystal clear and focused. "I don't have any here. But I can get it. Shouldn't take me long."

"Fast as you can, sweetheart. I'm depending on you." The line disconnected.

Aziraphale was on his feet, not aware of having left his chair. He set the handpiece down, his movements exaggeratedly precise. 

_Crowley?_


	2. Vengeance Disguised

The streets were wet outside Crowley's flat, but the rain had stopped. Aziraphale stood on the pavement looking up at his building. He had given himself a heart, thinking it a good idea for understanding human response to the events in their lives. In a crazy way it helped him to consider his options, his actions. It was quite unhappy at the moment, beating hard, and possibly, irregularly. Thoughts of Crowley made it leap; thoughts of Hastur made it contract. He could, of course, snap it away, if needed. For now, he would rely on its awkward counsel.

This was a trap, of that he was certain. But he would not know the shape of it, and how desperately awful it was, until he was in the middle of it. He quieted himself. Crowley was not dead; he would know, somehow, if he were. He would. His hands tightened around the tartan flask, and he started up the steps to the demon's building.

He tapped on the door of his flat and it swung open almost instantly. "Aziraphale!" It was Crowley in every detail: artfully peaked hair, black leather jacket, snakeskin shoes, sunglasses in a darkened room. And yet …. Crowley caught sight of the flask and fell back several steps. "That it?"

"Yes."

"About time." Then, with a smile, he said warmly, "Lover."

"Where is he?" Aziraphale asked. He held the flask close to his chest: clearly, a protective gesture, and unlikely to be misconstrued.

"In … my office. You know where it is."

Aziraphale rarely visited Crowley here, both of them preferring the backroom in his bookshop. But he did indeed know most of the layout of the flat. It took everything he had to turn his back on the demon and lead the way. In the doorway to the study, he came to a hard stop. 

The demon Hastur was bound hand and foot and secured to Crowley's chair, his mouth stuffed with a piece of tea towel, which was held in place by a narrow, cruelly tight band of filament tape that went round his head. Even in the dark room Aziraphale could make out the mass of bruises and cuts on his face. His chin was on his chest and he appeared to be insensible. Only the toad clinging to the top of his head appeared to be uninjured.

Aziraphale rounded on Crowley, schooling his features to mere dismay at the last minute. "Did you do that to him?"

Crowley gave him a feral smile. "Needed to know if anyone else was coming."

"You _tortured_ him?"

Realizing that Aziraphale was angry, Crowley drew himself tall. He growled, "He said things, nasty, horrible things. About you. What he meant to do after I … after he killed me."

"Me?" Bringing his emotions under control with difficulty, Aziraphale reminded himself that he had a very thin chance of success, and must keep his head. But of course he would be outraged at anyone's grievous injuries. Even a demon's.

"He knows you're important to … me. And Heaven wouldn't care if something happened to you."

"You know I can take care of myself, Crowley."

A sound, pained and thin, emanated from the chair. Both Aziraphale and Crowley looked round as Hastur raised his head. It appeared to take him a moment to focus, but when he did, his whole face contorted with something like fury—or maybe fear. He shouted behind the gag, his words unintelligible.

Aziraphale turned away. "Here," he said, and held the flask out to Crowley. Behind them, Hastur moaned.

"No!" Crowley backed away, hands spread wide in front of him. He stopped on the other side of the desk, and Aziraphale could see that he was shaking. It took him a moment, but he calmed himself. "I was hoping that you would do it."

"But you—"

"Too dangerous. There's no coming back from that. When … I killed Ligur, well, that stuff is dangerous."

Aziraphale shook his head firmly. "I don't kill things." 

"Not even for me?" Crowley wheedled. "You need to do it, lover. For me. Please?"

Aziraphale flinched, though probably not for the reason Crowley imagined.

"Just do it!" Crowley shouted, his patience apparently shot through. Aziraphale startled, almost dropping the flask. "He's a vile creature. Worst of the worst. He won't be missed."

Hastur, a short distance away, was pitching violently in the chair, wrenching against his bonds, hoarsely yelling into the stifling gag.

"He doesn't want to go," Crowley said, with an ugly expression. "It'll be a kindness to put him out of his misery."

"All right! All right." Aziraphale began to unscrew the cap of the flask. 'I won't allow him to hurt you again." He set the cap on the edge of the table. "You must stand well away," he instructed Crowley. He began to walk very slowly to the still struggling Hastur, raising the flask in his left hand as he went, his arm slightly extended. All at once, the fight went out of the helpless demon, and he slumped forward in the chair, breathing hard through his nose. 

"Should he be allowed last words?" Aziraphale asked, forcing himself to speak coolly. It was the sort of thing an angel would ask.

"No point," Crowley's face was hard. "It'd all be lies anyway." He bared his teeth and balled his fists. _"Just do it."_

"Right." Aziraphale edged around the back of the chair, stopping when he stood on Hastur's right hand side. Inch by inch he raised the flask until it was centered above Hastur's head. The demon craned his neck to look up at him, but Aziraphale dared not meet those eyes. From across the room, Crowley watched keenly, a hungry tension running through his body. Aziraphale whispered, "Please forgive me."

He tipped the flask and the first drops spilled out.

The water had not yet met its target when there came a shout of high-pitched, triumphant laughter from the other side of the room. At the same moment, the figure in the chair transformed from Hastur to Crowley, and Crowley, on the other side of the desk, became Hastur, his eyes black and gleaming with unholy excitement.

The water splashed. And, Hastur's laughter, full of hatred and vengeance, abruptly died. Although he was bound and savagely beaten, and dripping tap water from the crown of his head, Crowley—the real Crowley—was still alive.

"You tricked me!" Hastur roared, his face contorted with a terrible rage. "Clever you." He began to stalk toward Aziraphale. "But now I will do all those lovely, nasty, _filthy_ things while he watches. And then I will kill him."

"Afraid not," Aziraphale said, moving to stand directly in front of Crowley. Out of his right pocket, he produced a large pistol, his hand steady, despite the rapid tattoo of his heart. The demon glared at it, his lip still curled in a confident smile—for perhaps half a second before he seemed to realize what Aziraphale was pointing at him. He began to whip around, cursing, as if to bolt toward the door, and safety. But in the other half of that second, Aziraphale had already pulled the trigger, and the blast of Holy Water from the super soaker pistol caught him in the side of the head. The demon went down, half in and half out of the office, writhing and deforming amid a cacophony of howls and screams, and plumes of acrid smoke. Out of the ruins, a toad-like creature emerged, hopped once toward the door, and burst into flames. It released a single, agonized croak before folding, along with what was left of the smoke and the flames of Hastur, into nothing.

The silence was deafening. Aziraphale looked back at the being in the chair, his greatest fear that Hastur might have had the cunning to enact a double bluff. But there, blinking stupidly up at him, was Crowley. _His_ Crowley.

"Hold on," Aziraphale said. "For just a moment." He took the pistol and placed it outside the door to the flat. Back inside, he paused to examine the floor inside the office. Other than a small patch of charring, which was rapidly fading, there was nothing of the demon Hastur, nor of the Holy Water that had destroyed him, to be seen. At the last, Aziraphale touched his own jacket, willing it free of any remaining Holy Water.

Only then did he return to Crowley, who raised his head with difficulty. His eyes were blackened and there were cuts on his cheeks and jaw. Wincing with sympathy, Aziraphale fixed his efforts on the demonically strengthened bonds. He laid his hands on the cords at Crowley's wrists and immediately jerked away, a pain like fire shooting into his palms. Refocusing his will, he set only his fingertips on the bindings, ignoring the burning resistance, and was soon gratified when they snapped apart and fell away, wriggling like snakes to the floor beside the chair. He applied this same action to the bonds at his feet, and, finally, the larger ropes strapping him to the chairback.

Aziraphale caught him as Crowley fell bonelessly forward. "Right," Aziraphale said shortly. "Last thing." The gag was not magically enhanced, so Aziraphale had to pry at it with his fingers. He found the join of tape and tried to ease it off, but strands of hair and possibly some skin came away, as well, before he was done. Finally, Aziraphale pulled the wad of torn toweling out of Crowley's mouth and dropped it onto the floor.

"You idiot!" Crowley exclaimed furiously. He choked back a gasp of pain, and then continued between sucking breaths, "What were you playing at? He could've killed you. He was _going_ to kill you. He was going to—!"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale pushed him, not ungently, back into the chair. "I had to be sure it was you." Reaction was setting in, and when he spoke again, Aziraphale's voice broke. "It is said that demons—some demons—are very good at creating illusions. I _had_ to be sure."

Crowley exhaled raggedly, and laid his head against Aziraphale's chest, his arms wrapped limply round him. "Hastur," he uttered, exhausted, "was one of the best."

Weak with relief, Aziraphale allowed the moment to stretch. But Crowley was shivering, and Aziraphale knew he needed to get him out of this chair. "I'm going to pull you up," he said mildly. "Help you to your room. Can you manage that?"

Crowley grunted and nodded once. 

The walk to Crowley's room was a nightmare. Crowley could scarcely keep his feet and Aziraphale was petrified of causing him further harm. It didn't help that Aziraphale had never visited Crowley's bedroom before, which resulted in additional stumbling delay. At last, he maneuvered the demon onto his back on the expensive counterpane decorating his pristine bed. Crowley lay unmoving, eyes closed, all the life seemingly gone out of him. 

"Oh, Crowley" The demon's stillness terrified him. "What can I get you? What can I do? You must not discorporate. Hell will not give you a new bo—"

"I'm all right, angel." Crowley's voice came out just above a whisper, almost inaudible. He peered up at Aziraphale through drooping eyelids. "Not _all right_ all right, mind," he said slowly, "but I'm pretty sure Hastur meant for me to last long enough to watch ...." The effort of speaking seemed to further exhaust him, and he did not say what Hastur had meant for him to watch.

"Can I get you anything? What will help? Tea?"

"Tea," Crowley said sluggishly. "Yeah."

He was sleeping soundly when Aziraphale returned with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits raided from the pantry. Aziraphale set the mug on his bedside table, on a pub coaster that dated from the 19th century. He went in search of linens and found what he was looking for in a hall cupboard. The light wool blanket, deepest red with intricate black design, was exquisitely soft and warming. He draped it over his slumbering friend. Only then did he pull up a chair, which he placed near the foot of the bed, and settled in to wait. 

For hours he watched the demon sleep. Crowley slept hard at first, not moving at all. In the fifth hour, long, rippling tremors flowed through him, accompanied by soft incoherent cries and short, sharp spasms. It did not occur to Aziraphale that the demon might be dreaming, that experience being so far out of his own. But the cries grew more wretched, the tremors stronger. Aziraphale spoke to him, in his most reassuring tones; but Crowley either could not hear him or was beyond soothing. When he could bear it no longer, Aziraphale took off his shoes and removed his jacket. He climbed onto the spacious bed and carefully, as if Crowley were as fragile as an infant, pulled him into his arms. He shushed him and stroked the hair from his forehead. With a little moan, Crowley turned onto his side and pressed up close against him. He nudged his head onto Aziraphale's shoulder beneath his chin, and lay a heavy arm across his middle. The tremors stopped, the cries ceased.

For the first time in hours, the tight knot of anxiety eased inside him. Crowley was safe. They were both safe. Aziraphale closed his eyes and let everything else go.

* * *

There was a strangely pleasant sensation of soft friction against his chest. He murmured his appreciation, a long hum coming from deep in his throat. The sound of his own voice woke him. He was surprised to discover, first of all, that he had actually slept, and secondly, that there were fingers gliding across his skin—beneath his shirt. He reached down and captured the hand operating the fingers and held it in place while consciousness and memory fully returned. Only then did he open his eyes. Head resting on his shoulder, Crowley grinned up at him. "You're feeling better," Aziraphale said, approvingly.

"Was until you stopped me," Crowley replied.

Frowning, Aziraphale touched the side of the demon's face. Any thought of kissing was out of the question: Crowley's lower lip was still badly swollen. "Why are you not healing?"

Crowley shrugged and rubbed his temple against Aziraphale's shoulder. "Hastur, probably. He was a very powerful demon. And I'm only in one piece because he wanted me alive when you got here. But I do feel better. Some."

"I can—" Aziraphale waggled his fingers meaningfully.

"Best not. Demons and divine stuff don't always go well together."

Bringing Crowley's fingers out from under the placket of his shirt, Aziraphale noted that his bowtie lay undone and most of his shirt buttons had been slipped free of their buttonholes.

"Divine stuff?" he asked absently. He raised Crowley's fingers to his mouth.

"You know. You've seen what Holy Water can do. That sword of yours? Would probably have taken my arm off at the shoulder if I'd ever tried to pick it up. Consecrated ground—well, you know about that, too. And, Divine Light—?" He paused dramatically. "Ash."

"So, healing you would …?"

"Would maybe do just that, heal me. And it might also give me the mother of all rashes. Unpredictable."

Aziraphale returned the hand he held to its owner, and then squirmed and wriggled his way to the edge of the massive bed. "I'll keep that in mind. Coffee? Tea? Witch hazel?"

"Coffee machine in the kitchen, if you can work it out," Crowley pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. "Tea in the cupboard." He frowned at the mug on his bedside table. "Which you already found, from the smell of it. Witch hazel in the big bathroom, somewhere. For what it's worth."

Doing up his buttons as he padded in stocking feet into the kitchen, Aziraphale went through the cupboards one by one, eventually exclaiming with satisfaction when he found a large cafetiere, a coffee grinder, and more mugs. With the water set to boil, he then went in search of witch hazel and cotton balls. Along the way, he redid his bowtie, and tweaked his vest and trousers: he was not used to sleeping in his clothes. For that matter, he wasn't used to sleeping. It had actually been quite pleasant and he felt surprisingly refreshed.

He took the witch hazel into the bedroom and set it on the table nearest Crowley, noting that the demon appeared to be sleeping again. A few minutes later he returned with a tray of steaming mugs, milk and sugar.

"Smells good," Crowley said drowsily. He tried to sit up, gave a grimace of pain, took a very deep breath, and tried again. "Ow."

Aziraphale gathered a number of pillows that were strewn about the bed and piled them behind him. Lending his arm, he helped the demon into a more comfortable position. Biting his tongue—he would not fuss!—he brought the mug of black coffee to him, with the simple comment, "It's hot."

Crowley rolled his eyes and raised the mug to his lips.

"Right," Aziraphale said. "Take off your things so I can see where the bruises are." With no reluctance at all, and a cheeky grin, Crowley snapped his fingers. His jacket, shirt, tie, belt, and denim trousers disappeared. Uncovered, his skin was revealed to be a mosaic of badly mottled flesh, barely any small patch of it left undamaged. Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "Oh, Crowley."

Crowley rolled his shoulders in a careful, tired shrug and took a slurp of coffee. "'S all right. Hurts worse than it looks. And, yes, I meant to say that. I don't know that that stuff will do any good. He barely touched me. This is all, you know, demon stuff."

"I hope you're exaggerating," Aziraphale said soberly. He unscrewed the cap of witch hazel and dampened a cotton ball. For the next several minutes, he dabbed and re-moistened, working methodically from face to hips, where Crowley's pants rode very low, exposing most of his lower abdomen.

"That actually feels pretty good." Crowley's voice was slurred and his head was nodding forward by the time Aziraphale finished. Though Crowley had made not a sound throughout, Aziraphale had been aware of the involuntary recoiling, the sharp exhalations, the suddenly tightened muscles as he had treated one bruise after another. He rescued the mug, which was mostly empty, and helped him to lie back more comfortably. He didn't mention that he had been injecting tiny streams of angelic healing into each pat of witch hazel, despite Crowley's suggestion otherwise. He was confident that he could get away with it, as he had done it before—rarely!—without Crowley's knowledge. A slight rash was a small price to pay. 

He capped the bottle and placed it and the small packet of cotton balls aside. And then he sank into the chair near the foot of the bed, and drank his cold coffee.

* * * 

"Go home, angel," Crowley said. Aziraphale looked up from his book to find the demon watching him drowsily. "You'll discorporate from boredom here."

"Tell me you're feeling better and I'll think about it." Aziraphale closed the book and set it on the foot of the bed.

"I feel fabulous." He closed his eyes again and let his head fall back into his pillow. 

Aziraphale took their used mugs into the kitchen and set about preparing another carafe of coffee. He also uncovered a baguette and a jar of jam. The baguette he cut in half and warmed on the open flame of the hob. Then he slathered it with jam and set it on a plate. He paused in the doorway to Crowley's bedroom. But sleepy eyes came open and after a second or two seemed to focus. "Eat this and I'll go," Aziraphale promised.

"You know I don't need that to—" He sighed. "Bring it here."

At first it was apparent that Crowley meant to eat only a few reluctant bites and call it good. Between swallows of coffee, however, he began to eat with a little more interest, if not enthusiasm. When he had finished, he set the plate and the empty mug on the tray and slumped back once more. "I'm going back to sleep." He idly scratched at his chest.

Aziraphale removed the tray to the chair he'd been using. "You're certain?"

"I'll be fine. You go on."

"Right." But Aziraphale spent a moment by the side of the bed, studying the demon's injuries and assuring himself that they had indeed begun to heal. On a whim, he bent over and placed a tiny kiss at the uninjured corner of Crowley's mouth.

It was as if he had set free a spring. The next thing he knew, Aziraphale was on his back and Crowley was looming over him, his mouth on Aziraphale's, split and swollen lips be damned. Yet a novice to kisses and kissing, Aziraphale nevertheless thought this one particularly fine. In the responsible part of his mind, he castigated himself for causing Crowley's reaction, surely not advisable for someone in his condition; but the part that welcomed his touch, the wonder of his kiss, this closeness, was utterly unrepentant.

"I've changed my mind," Crowley said, a while later, eyes glittering even in the shadowy half-light of the bedroom. "You get to stay."

Aziraphale gazed trustingly up at him, as his own hand, fingers spread wide where it pressed against Crowley's chest glided downward—so lightly, a gossamer touch—over bruised sternum, ribs, the dip below his breastbone, the vulnerable flat plain of his abdomen.

"Keep going in that direction, angel," Crowley breathed, "and neither of us will be getting any sleep."

Just then, Aziraphale's finger and thumb found and caught the edge of the sheet puddled at Crowley's hips, and pulled it up, all the way up, to just below the demon's shoulders. Crowley groaned defeat—an indication that he truly was exhausted—and rolled off to lie flat on his back. 

Aziraphale, feeling just the slightest bit dizzy, climbed out of the bed. He tugged his clothing into a semblance of propriety, and went looking for this shoes. "If you need me, I'll be in my bookshop." He propped his foot on a linen chest that ran the length of the footboard and tied his laces. "Crowley?" 

"Hm?"

"What will Hell do?"

The demon opened his eyes as far as they would go, which wasn't very, and stared blankly at the ceiling. "Hastur's imp—did it get away?"

"Imp? The toad thing that was on his head?"

"That's the one."

"It burned." Straightening, Aziraphale vaguely described an immolation with his hands.

"Good. Might be a bit before Hell knows anything, then. But they'll—" Crowley closed his eyes, mumbled something, and fell asleep.

Aziraphale waited a few minutes longer. When he was sure the demon was sleeping soundly, he took the tray, loaded with mugs and a couple of small plates, into the kitchen. There he performed a perfunctory clean-up, finally leaving the crockery to dry on a towel. He went back to Crowley's bedroom, unable to resist looking in on him once more, assuring himself with some difficulty that the demon would be fine on his own. Eventually he let himself out of the flat, taking great care to ensure that the lock engaged securely. Rather surprised to see the water pistol where he had left it, he picked it up and took it with him for proper disposal.

* * *

For the first time since moving to Soho centuries before, Aziraphale walked from the bus stop fully aware of his surroundings, including the crowds of people streaming past, cars clogging the street, the windows of storefronts, and traffic in and out of nearby buildings. He and Crowley had been careless. Though Crowley had yet to tell him how he had fallen prey to Hastur, Aziraphale guessed that simple inattention had been the root cause. They had thought they had time. Time to enjoy freedom from their respective offices, time to enjoy each other.

Standing in front of the door to the bookshop, Aziraphale slipped the key into the lock.

"Mr Fell!"

A small woman approached from the pavement, one of his frequent browsers. He doubted that she could afford anything in his stock, even if it were marked for sale, but that did not stop her visiting. There was a particular volume of Austen that she coveted, if he recalled correctly. "Miss Ashton?"

"Is the shop open?"

"Yes," he said, deciding only that moment. His hours were never truly regular, but his usual clients seemed to have an extra sense regarding the shop's opening, no matter the time of day. "Please, come in."

Within moments, almost before all of the lights had flared to full power, several more readers had wandered in, all of them familiar. None of them could save him from the forces of Heaven or Hell, but he took comfort in their presence, in the ordinariness of their respectful interest in his collection.

After swapping his jacket for his cardigan, he took the latest volume of his "research" from his desk and carried it to the desk in the middle of the bookshop. The cover art—two naked men kissing—was nothing to the interior illustrations. Aziraphale's brows crawled up his forehead as he went through the pages, each drawing seemingly more explicit than the one before. Of course he was aware of images of humans in the act of knowing, had even witnessed not only their inspiration but their creation. But this— And applying it to Crowley and himself— Well, it took his breath away.

When he had turned the last page, Aziraphale sat for a moment, staring into space. Gradually he realized that the afternoon was nearly spent, and several of his customers had already left. He made a quick announcement that the shop would close in five minutes.

He noticed that the last customer, Miss Ashton, was putting her beloved Austen back on the shelf, carefully lifting it into place rather than sliding it in on its binding. He looked at her closely—something he had not done for a while. An older woman, she had been ill earlier in the year, having grown thin and taken to wearing scarves. Recently, however, her hair was back, though thinner, and she was bordering on plump. He'd had a hand in that, conferring a tiny miracle one evening while she was visiting the shop, a guarantee of another thirty years or so—barring accidents, of course. He gave her a smile and a friendly nod as she went out onto the pavement, following unhurriedly on her heels to lock the doors behind her. Through the rain-streaked windows he watched the ever scurrying crowd. So many humans, their lives so short.

He returned the last "research" volume to the shelf where he had found it, and selected another book from a different shelf. With it held lovingly in his hands, he turned on his heel and surveyed all the books and scrolls and rare items that he had gathered, the wealth of words that had enriched his life over the years. Back at his desk, he took a sheet of his monogrammed paper, wrote out a quick note with his perfect Copperplate, and blotted it dry. His thoughts were on Crowley as he tucked the folded sheet into the book, and he smiled to himself when he heard the trill of the phone.

"Yes?"

"It's me," Crowley said. "Why aren't you here?"

"Feeling better? Shall I bring supper?"

"Yes, and yes. Still itching, though."

"Ah," Aziraphale said noncommittally. "And what would you like?"

"Fish and chips. I have wine. And, angel—"

"Yes?"

Crowley's voice, when he spoke, was low and warm. "Fair warning: you might end up on the menu."

"Ah." Aziraphale's stomach clenched. Thanks to his recent readings, he could think of a number of ways that might be accomplished. He gathered his wits and replied tartly, "Well, _when_ you are fully recovered, we'll talk about who's to be _first_ on the menu."

Crowley chuckled, the sound of it melting inside Aziraphale's ear. "I'm going to clean up. See you soon?"

"Very."

Unable to repress an upwelling of pure happiness, Aziraphale changed out of his sweater and switched off the lights. He turned the Closed sign to face the street. Snagging an umbrella from the stand by the door, he left the bookshop, pausing only to listen for the lock as he stepped onto the pavement.

* * *

The chippy they preferred was only a few streets away, so Aziraphale ventured off on foot. The staff recognized him as he walked in the door, and he was waved to the counter to collect a paper bag heavy with their order. Crowley must have called ahead and paid with his card. Aziraphale smiled his thanks and made his way through the waiting customers to the door and back onto the street. This time he caught the bus that would deliver him to Mayfair, usually a short ride, but the bus was heaving with end-of-day travelers, so the stops took longer.

Tired, overworked, steaming humans were not the best company. Aziraphale was glad to step onto the pavement, some minutes later, barely avoiding a large puddle. Slowing as he neared Crowley's building, Aziraphale took care to observe his surroundings and the people who were striding by. As assured as he could be that no one lurked in the shadows to assassinate him, he closed the umbrella and went up to the entry. Using the spare key Crowley had given him long ago, he let himself inside the lobby.

There was no one in the hallway outside the flat. Holding the umbrella at the ready, a weapon if needed, Aziraphale opened the door and slipped inside.

"Crowley?"

"In here, angel." The voice came from the dining room. Aziraphale stowed the umbrella by the door and headed that way. What he found brought him to an abrupt stop in the doorway.

Crowley smiled up at him, half bent as he awakened a candle. Another candle. There was a church full of candles lit and flickering around the room. Plates, spotless china of incalculable worth, were set with a gleaming silver service. Wine glasses had already been poured. Most impressive, however, was Crowley himself, who stood in an ankle length silk robe, black with a narrow red belt loosely tied across his hips. The robe was open to his waist, revealing an awful lot of skin.

"Oh." Aziraphale's heart was suddenly pounding. "My." 

Crowley shook the flame from his fingertip. He reached out and took the bag containing their dinner from Aziraphale's nerveless fingers, and put it on the sideboard. And then he took Aziraphale in his arms, and kissed him. This, oh this—Aziraphale's mind closed to everything but sensation. Crowley's mouth, lips parted and moving against his own, asking a response, which he gave readily, because it felt wonderful. The warmth of Crowley's body, pressed all down the length of him. And the flinch Crowley could not conceal when Aziraphale pressed a hand against his chest. 

Aziraphale pulled away. "You're hurting."

"Not that much," Crowley said, clearly lying. He shrugged, and for emphasis, shrugged again. "I suppose you want to eat first?"

"First?" Aziraphale repeated.

"Before we—" Crowley jerked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

"_We_ are going to eat our supper, and then _I_ am going home."

Crowley blinked. "But I thought—"

"You," Aziraphale said, with some exasperation, "are in pain."

"But—" Crowley gathered himself by force of will, frustration hot in his eyes. "You—"

Aziraphale bent close and kissed him very, very gently, his hands on the robe's collar. "Please. There's no hurry, really." Gazing imploringly at him, Aziraphale let his hands slide down the length of the silk sleeves, catching Crowley's wrists and squeezing them. As usual, the look that implied that only Crowley could solve the ills of Aziraphale's world worked.

"Yeah. All right," Crowley capitulated, though his lip remained curled and his voice was barely above a growl. He retained an air of baffled betrayal about him.

"Sit," Aziraphale said. "You should be resting." He busied himself with emptying the contents of the paper bag onto their plates. When Crowley gingerly lowered himself into his chair, Aziraphale winced in sympathy. "How badly does it hurt?" he asked, trying to sound merely interested rather than deeply worried.

"Shut it, angel." Crowley folded a chip into his mouth and chewed resolutely. Giving Aziraphale a dark look, he asked, "So, how goes the research?" 

Aziraphale sat, arranged his napkin in his lap, and picked up his glass. After an appreciative sip, he said, "I believe I am done with it."

"Here's me guessing you didn't like what you learned." Crowley concentrated on his meal, skewering a chunk of fish with unnecessary violence and jamming it into his mouth.

"Crowley." Aziraphale picked up the demon's free hand and kissed it. "It's not that." Crowley raised a doubtful brow. "Though I did find this one book," Aziraphale admitted. "And if I'd had no inkling of what is involved, that book would have put me off, probably forever. Rather more sex than joy between those pages, regardless of the title."

"And you were looking for romance? In a sex aid manual?" Crowley asked. And then froze. "_What's_ the title?"

"_The Joy of Gay Sex_," Aziraphale replied, in his most sententious tones. And then he dropped the hauteur and grinned ruefully, inviting Crowley to smile, too. "Quite detailed."

"You'd never seen it before?"

"That wasn't my copy." He raised his glass to his lips. "One of the _new_ additions."

Crowley snorted a laugh, and Aziraphale felt something loosen in his chest. The demon never could hold onto his pique—at least where Aziraphale was concerned. "Of its time, angel." He pushed away from the table.

"You know it?" Aziraphale asked, taken aback. The book did have a lot of illustrations, but Crowley generally avoided books—or so he claimed. The demon did not answer as he walked out of the room. But he was back within minutes, an identical copy of the book in his hand. He dropped it on the table between them.

"Found this in the drawer of my bedside table after you left." He raised a brow significantly. "Thought _you'd_ slipped it in there for a little bedtime reading."

"Oh. That's why you thought—"

'Yeah." Crowley rolled his eyes. "Have to admit it didn't seem like you, but—"

"Adam," Aziraphale exclaimed, with a rush of mortified comprehension.

"Adam," Crowley agreed.

"He's an eleven year old _child_," Aziraphale exclaimed. His cheeks were flaming. That child had determined that their relationship needed his assistance. He had been _matchmaking_. 

"With all the knowledge of the universe, yes." Crowley began to cackle, clutching at his middle as his laughter got away from him. Aziraphale, infected by his amusement, smothered his laughter behind his napkin. Not that he would ever forgive the young whelp.

"So, it put you off, did it?" Crowley resumed his seat, his gaze direct as always. "The book?"

"I believe my exact words were, 'If I'd had no inkling of what is involved, that book would have put me off.' It's been an educational six thousand years, Crowley. Perhaps I didn't know _some_ of the modern preferences, but I've known the basics for a very long time."

"But not as they apply to you."

"Well, no." Aziraphale smiled tentatively. "That's where you come in. When we—when you're better—"

Crowley raised his glass in a toast, eyes filled with speculation. "I'll do my best, angel."

Aziraphale glowed. He clinked his glass against Crowley's.

Later, after sending Crowley in for a lie-down, Aziraphale cleared away the dinner things, quenched the candles, and rolled up the soiled papers for the bin. The flat was a hushed whisper of active climate control and double-glazed windows, quite the contrast to Aziraphale's bookshop. He found Crowley sprawled on the bed, propped up by a pile of pillows against his headboard. Aziraphale handed him the almost empty bottle of wine. With calm efficiency, he removed his jacket and shoes and climbed up onto the bed beside him. Crowley eyed him uncertainly.

Aziraphale took the bottle back and had a drink. "Let me help you."

"Would it do any good to say no?" Crowley groused good-naturedly. He accepted the bottle back from Aziraphale and tipped it into his mouth.

"You should have completely healed by now," Aziraphale pointed out. "And the magic you used tonight can't have helped."

Crowley cradled the bottle against his chest. "But I had the magic tonight. Yesterday—" He shook his head. "It is getting better," he claimed. "Just not as fast as usual."

"Right." Aziraphale rose up on his knees. He removed the bottle from Crowley's hands, took a final swig, then stretched across the demon to place the bottle on the nearer table. Sitting back on his heels, he pulled Crowley's robe open until his chest was completely exposed. Perhaps he studied the bared flesh longer than he needed to, and his fingers hovered at length rather than passing swiftly over the remaining bruises as he gauged the depth of the damage. But he could not find it in himself to resist. This human form, containing the soul of the demon Crowley, belonged to him. Or so he had decided.

When he looked up at Crowley, silently asking permission to commence his healing, Crowley inhaled sharply, responding to something in Aziraphale's rapt expression, and replied with a jerky nod. Aziraphale bent forward and placed his mouth on the vulnerable region below his ribcage, and gently blew, his energy spreading warmth across his abdomen, into his mortal form, and throughout all its human matter. Crowley gasped and curled a hand around Aziraphale's head, his fingers splayed in his hair, a soft moan escaping on a breath. When Aziraphale was certain that he had done all that he dared, certain that he had not transgressed that boundary between angel and demon, he sat back. Crowley's hand slid down his chest to drop, limp, on the bed. He was deeply asleep, his entire body at rest, the tension of pain gone from his face. Tenderly, Aziraphale pulled the sides of the robe together, then lowered his mouth to Crowley's lips in a brief kiss.

As he dressed, Aziraphale continued to brood about Crowley's injuries. The healing he had effected the previous day should have been sufficient to assist Crowley's own restorative abilities. Even his reckless use of magic—tiny expenditures of energy for a demon of his power—should not have allowed him to suffer such pain, which despite his denial, had been considerable. Perhaps he was correct and Hastur's concentrated evil had done the damage. But it occurred to Aziraphale that something else was involved, a thought he really didn't want to entertain. Who, or what, could have caused this sort of damage?

It was late evening when Aziraphale finally walked out of Crowley's apartment building. He had thought it prudent, given the hour, to take a cab back to the bookshop. He hated this paranoia, while accepting that it was necessary now, maybe for ever. He supposed he would get used to it. As he paid the driver outside his bookshop, he searched the shadows, the people on the pavement. The West End was always buzzing, and tonight was no different. Nothing alarming; nothing out of place.

Inside the shop, wards and locks set, he could finally let down his guard. Comfortable in his sweater, he pottered about in the backroom. While the water boiled in its kettle, he set a few digestives on the small plate kept for that purpose, and raised one to his mouth. He faltered, remembering, suddenly, the sensation of Crowley's skin against his lips, the heat radiating from his body, the demon's hand in his hair. He closed his eyes, swaying a little as warmth suffused his entire being. The kettle clicked off, the sharp sound recalling him to himself. "This won't do," he muttered. With shaking fingers, he put the biscuit on the plate with the others, and placed the plate on the work counter. He must marshal his thoughts. First up: prepare his tea.

Nearly an hour later, Aziraphale had finally picked up where he had left off on the novel he was reading, almost to the point of following plot and character without having to constantly stop and clear his mind of other, more intriguing images. It was then that there came a knocking at his door. A glance at the clock told him that it had already gone half nine—far too late for customers. A feckless person, then, performing a prank. It happened occasionally, much to his irritation. This time, however, the rapping was repeated. And repeated again.

Even as he rose to his feet, setting down his mug, and then removing his glasses, he knew Crowley would tell him to ignore it. But the summons came for the fourth time, and Aziraphale felt a strong compulsion to answer it.

A strangely nondescript man—pale, even-featured, dark haired—dressed in old-style livery, from the upright collar, bow tie, and double-breasted jacket, to the perfectly fitted trousers and spit-shined shoes, stood outside his door, waiting a proper three feet away. This, pretty much the last thing Aziraphale had expected, stole his ire and made him say politely, "Yes?"

"Sir." The man took a single step forward, and with one hand behind his back, extended from the other a large square envelope. "Your invitation."

"Ah." Aziraphale accepted the envelope, noting immediately the quality of the parchment and the likelihood that it was genuine calfskin. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the coin always kept there, good for practicing sleight of hand, as well as tipping servants. The man—footman, Aziraphale assessed—put both hands behind his back and said deferentially, "Not needed, sir. But if you don't mind, a response is requested at once. I'll just wait here." He moved back, as straight in posture as the pillar at his side, and gazed expressionlessly out over the street.

Aziraphale looked at the street, too, wondering where the man's conveyance was, and, a little whimsically, whether it had a motor.

"Yes, all right." Tapping the envelope against his palm, Aziraphale retired to the foyer, cautious, as had become his recent habit, to see that the door closed and the lock set. He held the envelope to the light—without doubt, calfskin—and then took it to his desk, where he opened it with his gilt letter opener. The writing was immaculate, each stroke unique but consistent, a Copperplate as well formed as his own. The invitation itself was succinct, a private showing of a single rare item, to be held tomorrow late in the day. He flipped it over, but there was nothing more. He returned to his front step.

The footman, who had not changed his stance by a micron, somehow grew taller still at his approach. "Sir."

"There are no directions. Specific time. Not even the name of the item's owner."

"The owner is anonymous, sir. Directions will be provided, should you agree to attend, as will the time of the event."

Warning bells reverberating in his head, Aziraphale allowed his suspicions to show. "How do I know this isn't some sort of set-up?"

The footman smiled ingratiatingly. "It is an invitation, sir. Nothing more. You may, of course, decline."

"It is unusual," Aziraphale pointed out.

"So it is, sir. May I say that the number of invitations is quite small, and the, erm, owner is of impeccable character."

Aziraphale heard the slight pause, and wondered how the man would normally characterize his employer. "All right. Where are the instructions?"

A hand slipped into the footman's jacket and reappeared with another large, square envelope. "You are accepting, then, sir?"

"Yes, I accept the invitation." There was the slightest note of brusqueness in his voice. What had he agreed to, and why was he just now worried? He reminded himself that even though he had agreed, it didn't mean he had to actually follow through.

"Your instructions, sir." 

"Thank you." The footman nodded, then turned and strode off down the pavement to the end of the street, where he rounded the corner and disappeared into the darkness. Aziraphale realized that he himself was quite visible in the surrounding light and went back inside. 

This envelope, like the first, was also made of parchment. Aziraphale took it to his desk and slid the point of the letter opener under the sealed flap. The directions to the site of the showing were precise, though, oddly, no particular address was given—perhaps to make it harder to predetermine the location? The time of the event brought his brows up; but, upon consideration, did not trouble him any more than the rest of it. In summary, there was to be a showing of a single rare item, with no indication of what that item might be; at a location not specified but for which there were detailed directions; at a time that was specific, but in and of itself, not exact at all. Aziraphale's smile came slow and intense, his eyes gleaming. This, he decided, had nothing to do with Heaven or Hell. And, he was deeply intrigued.

He should call Crowley. Of course he should. But he knew that, unbothered, the demon would likely sleep the rest of the night and all of tomorrow. And he needed that sleep, if he was to heal. So, conscience pricking only a little, Aziraphale picked up the handset of his phone to arrange a car and driver—only to hear Crowley's voice say, "Angel?"


	3. The Lord's Bluebells

"Crowley?" Aziraphale blurted. "Is that you?"

"Yeah." The demon sounded sluggish, dazed. "Did you just ring me?"

"No, of course not. You should be sleeping."

"I was. But it rang and rang. And rang. Thought it must be you." He murmured something to himself, then said, "Were you calling someone? We must've connected when you picked up." He yawned, audibly.

"I didn't telephone you." Aziraphale said, avoiding his question. "Go back to sleep."

"Why do I feel so out of it?" Aziraphale could hear Crowley's frowning confusion through the phone lines. "Like I had too much to drink and forgot to sober up. Wait—Aziraphale, did you whammy me?"

Aziraphale felt himself flush. "You know how I hate that word." He had no reason to feel guilty; he was only dismayed that Crowley's sleep had been disturbed. "Please, Crowley—" He pulled the handset away from his ear as Crowley yawned again, loudly.

"I'm looking at my phone, Aziraphale," Crowley said, his voice dropping lower as sleep tried to reclaim him. "There're no recent calls. But I heard something."

"Maybe it was a dream."

"Maybe." His voice started to trail off, then came back sharply, as if he'd forced himself awake again. "And you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Crowley." But Aziraphale paused. He didn't really believe in coincidences. Crowley should be sound asleep. The clanging of a dozen church bells should not have penetrated the healing slumber that Aziraphale had put him under. Yet something had awakened him, and he had called at the very moment that Aziraphale had picked up his phone to schedule a driver.

"But?"

"I've received an invitation." Aziraphale kept his tone neutral. "So I'll be out of town tomorrow afternoon, back late."

"An invitation to what?" Crowley asked, and Aziraphale could tell that he had gone from borderline unconscious to full awake in an instant.

"To a showing of a rare item."

"Where?"

"Oxfordshire. Not Tadfield," Aziraphale quickly assured him.

"And you were calling someone to drive you?" 

Aziraphale resented the guilt that plucked at him. "Well, yes. I'll only be out of town for a few hours, Crowley. It would be better if you—"

Crowley interrupted him. "I'll be at the bookshop before noon." His tone brooked no argument.

Aziraphale sighed. "All right. I'll see you then."

"Right."

"Good night, Crowley."

The demon disconnected without another word, Crowley's way of showing his displeasure. Aziraphale scowled at the handpiece as he cradled it. He should not feel guilty, for heaven's sake. But of course he did. Tomorrow he would have to make it up to him.

Aziraphale picked up the invitation, his brows knitted together in thought. Dealers of antique goods could often be eccentric. Hiring someone to play a footman to personally deliver an invitation so late in the night before a showing was not out of the realm of possibility. Well, obviously. So—not unheard of, but, not frequently heard of, either. He dropped the envelope on his desk, remembering his certainty, only a few moments before, that whatever this adventure posed, it had nothing to do with Heaven or Hell. And what if his instincts were wrong? He tapped a finger on the parchment, considering. And then he sat in his chair, deliberately put on his glasses, and picked up his book. Tomorrow would be soon enough to decide. 

* * *

The sun rose the following day on a clear, crisp autumn morning. Aziraphale opened the shop early. As light streamed in through the windows, customers began to wander inside. He took his usual place at his desk, but soon found that he could not sit still for long. Throughout the night he had continued to question the wisdom of going to Oxfordshire. It was a long drive, perhaps for nothing. Or for something dangerous? When Miss Ashton walked through the door, mid-morning, he was glad for the distraction. He had spent much of the morning staring out the windows, seeing nothing, lost in his thoughts. He stood and signaled her over. She looked surprised, and also a little curious. "Miss Ashton," he greeted. 

"Good morning, Mr Fell."

"In case you are interested, the price of the Austen volume has been reduced. Today only."

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up. Reality followed excitement, and she said with a rueful smile, "I'm sure even at a reduced price it would be too dear for me."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Just to let you know."

"I'll just—" She pointed in the direction of the shelf and quickly walked away. 

Aziraphale pretended to focus on something at his desk, but watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. He appreciated her careful handling of the volume, the way she supported the cover while her fingers found the note tucked just inside. Her doubt as she unfolded it, her shock when she saw the listed price. She was back within moments, the book held cherishingly in the crook of one arm, the price slip trapped between finger and thumb of her free hand. "Mr Fell," she began, then shook her head as apparently words would not come to her.

"So you do want it?"

"Oh, yes!" Her eyes were shining with gratitude and a veil of unshed moisture. She pulled out of her purse a £10 note. Aziraphale rang the sale up, took the proffered money, then handed her back a £5 note in change. He took the book from her shaking fingers and carefully folded it in brown wrapping paper, which he tied expertly with string. "Mr Fell, thank you." Her words were so heartfelt, they practically hummed in the air between them.

"My pleasure, Miss Ashton." He smiled benignly as she walked out of the store, and wondered idly if he would ever see her again, now that she finally had her precious book.

"Did you just sell a book, Aziraphale?" a familiar voice asked at his shoulder.

His heart leapt in his chest. "It is a bookshop," Aziraphale replied smartly, turning to face his friend. His smile, brilliant in greeting, countered his tone. "I didn't see you come in."

"That's because you've been standing around, staring at nothing for hours."

"You haven't been here for hours!" 

"Steady on," Crowley said with a cat's smile. "Not like I'm accusing you of selling your stock. Though at that price you really can't call it—"

"Enough," Aziraphale said, in a hushed voice. "She's been ill."

"Much improved now," Crowley whispered back. "Prognosis is good. No sign of recurrence."

"How on earth can you know that?" Aziraphale asked, taken aback.

"Overheard her outside on her mobile," Crowley confided. "I expect she's ringing all of her friends right now, telling them what a soft touch that nice Mr Fell is."

Aziraphale noted, with some alarm, the demon's reckless, but tightly contained energy; the concentrated heat rolling off him. "You must be feeling better." His ear tingled where Crowley's breath had touched it.

"I am feeling better," Crowley drawled. "In fact," he leaned nearer, far closer than acceptable, and his words were rough and low, "good enough to have you in my bed."

Aziraphale stilled. For a moment he was unable even to breathe. Crowley's eyes never wavered, his attention raw, physical, and filled with promise. When he spoke at last, Aziraphale managed to say, quite coolly, "Good to know."

Crowley laughed and the tension broke between them. Aziraphale felt the release as something physical. Had Crowley been _tempting_ him? One or two of the customers looked round, then turned swiftly away, feeling the sear of Crowley's attention. "Close it down, angel," he quietly ordered. "Time for lunch."

* * *

They took a taxi to a trattoria not far from Crowley's flat. There they settled in with the lunch crowd, commanding a table near the window. While waiting for their order, they shared a carafe of wine and a basket of freshly baked bread.

Crowley watched Aziraphale eat, contenting himself with his wine. He had been silent on the drive from the shop, his thoughts clearly not to be shared.

"What is it?" Aziraphale finally asked, sucking the butter from his fingers. At Crowley's expression, he began to use his napkin, instead.

Eyes hooded, Crowley asked, "Why'd you sell that book? Must've been worth fifty times what you charged her. You felt sorry for her?"

"A hundred times, actually. Perhaps I did, a little. Really, I ought to have sold it to her years ago." He tilted his head. "Better than letting it burn in a fire." 

Crowley's mouth fell open. "That—" he gave the word extra emphasis "—doesn't happen this go-round."

"No. But it could," Aziraphale reasoned. "And what a waste that would be."

"Are you going to sell all of your books on the cheap, then?"

"Good heavens, no." Aziraphale pulled a face of mild horror. "I might sell a few, now and then, to my regulars. They don't live very long, humans." 

"Only now figuring that out, angel?"

Just then, their plates were delivered. Crowley stabbed his spoon into his risotto, and stirred it around a little. Aziraphale waited until the demon was chewing before saying, "You're angry with me."

Crowley raised his head, his eyes burning over the top of the shaded lenses. He swallowed and had a drink of his wine. "Why don't you tell me exactly what happened last night." 

So Aziraphale described his visitor, their conversation, and the gist of the invitation, between bites of his very good rigatoni. He left nothing out, including his belief that today's expedition posed no threat to either of them, though he couldn't explain just why.

"Show me the invitation."

Aziraphale pried the folded sheets out of his pocket and slid them across the table. Crowley studied them closely, and Aziraphale used his preoccupation to study him. The lethargy was gone, replaced by the contained vibrancy that Aziraphale knew so well. But there was something else, a discordance of motion, almost as if he were uncomfortable in his skin. Aziraphale finally identified it when he saw the demon's hand go repeatedly to the place below his chest where Aziraphale had forced his healing energy. Best not to mention it, he decided. Maybe, once the itching had stopped.

"No name, no address, no description, nothing. And you're okay with this?" Crowley thrust the invitation back across the table to him.

"Sellers in antiquities can be … eccentric. And sometimes overly discreet."

Crowley's lips flattened together. "Doesn't sound at all illegal to me."

"Could be?" Aziraphale set his fork down. "We don't have to go."

Crowley heaved a sigh. "But you want to."

"I think I do, yes." He patted his lips. "You usually like a drive in the country."

"Yeah. But, Oxfordshire."

"Not Tadfield," Aziraphale reminded him.

Crowley gave him a sour look. He drained his glass and set it on the table. "When you're ready, angel."

* * *

They spoke little on the drive out of London. The A40 was bustling with traffic, and Crowley kept his focus on the road. Aziraphale occupied himself finding a music disc that had not yet been converted to Queen's Best of. He eventually uncovered something by Corelli that was nicely soothing. It lasted until they reached the junction with the M40, when Freddie Mercury's clear voice came through, singing about wanting to live forever. 

Crowley cast a quick glance at him, but Aziraphale was listening to the song and its lyrics. "That's rather nice."

"It's a tune from a movie about an immortal who lops off the heads of other immortals."

"You did have to ruin it." Aziraphale tsked. Just then the song ended and was followed by a loud, raucous tune, which Aziraphale did not allow to play beyond the first few notes. "Is there nothing else?"

"A Pachelbel, I think." His brow wrinkled in thought. "Might last till the turn-off you described."

"Ah. Found it." Aziraphale sat back and closed his eyes, as the gentle tones of Canon in D Major filled the cabin of the Bentley.

They were some miles down the road when Crowley said, "Where'd the water pistol come from?"

The question did not come as a surprise, but its timing did. Aziraphale had expected it a couple of days earlier. He bit back his distaste and replied, "From a shop near the church."

Crowley smiled openly and nodded. "That was brilliant. He thought you'd try something on. Not that."

"Hm."

"Haven't thanked you, have I?"

"Don't." Aziraphale's hands tightened together in his lap.

"Why not?" Crowley seemed baffled.

"You shouldn't thank me for killing something. Not even a creature like Hastur."

"Oh."

Aziraphale turned to study the demon's face, expressionless as usual. "I don't regret it." He wanted to make that perfectly clear. "I just hope his death doesn't create more problems for you, with Hell."

Crowley seemed unconcerned. "They like killing, Hell. Even when it's one of their own."

"Even a Duke of Hell?"

Crowley, shrugging, favored Aziraphale with a roguish smile. "Opens promotion opportunities."

Aziraphale smiled back, as he was meant to, and returned his attention to the road and its signs. Once they were over the Chilterns, he read aloud from his instructions. Crowley left the M40 and started navigating the narrower country roads.

"I stole it." 

"Thought that must be the case," Crowley said, unperturbed.

"The shops were closed," Aziraphale explained. Contrition still weighed heavily in him.

"It was late," Crowley commiserated.

"I did pay for it."

"Thought that, too."

"Then why bring it up at all?" He gestured toward an upcoming junction with a one-lane road. "Left, there."

"Got it." The car slowed and edged into the new lane, its driver not looking best pleased. "How far?"

"Another half mile." The sky was lowering with heavy clouds and fading daylight. Crowley had timed the trip with uncanny instinct.

As the car coasted along, Crowley said, "Because I wanted to say how clever you were. And to thank you, even if you'd rather I not."

Aziraphale looked across at him, speechless as always when Crowley said or did something unexpectedly kind. They were closed in with tall trees, the road lined with towering hedges. Recalling himself, Aziraphale said, "Slow down. There'll be a small cut in the hedge, on your right."

Around them, as they crept down the road, the sky grew darker still, the clouds billowing black and laden right overhead. Crowley brought the car almost to a stop to steer it into a narrow opening. He cursed softly as branches reached toward his precious paint.

"This can't be right," Aziraphale said, frowning.

"You're sure of the directions?" Crowley's concentration was tightly fixed on the narrow grass lane.

"I read them exactly."

The area was overgrown with buckthorn and sumac, the latter's leaves a deep bloody red. Branches and twigs jerked out of the car's way as Crowley hissed a warning. There was no question that he had a way with growing things.

"I think that's it, there," Aziraphale said, pointing toward a slightly darker section in the hedge ahead of them. 

Crowley managed to ease the car into the opening that was just wide enough to admit it. They entered a fairy world of light and color, for here the sun shone on a small clearing, spacious enough to accommodate a couple dozen Bentleys, and surrounded on all sides by trees and thick undergrowth. Its floor was carpeted with bluebells. 

Crowley braked the car and switched off the engine. "The flowers are a nice touch," he remarked.

"It's September," Aziraphale said, his voice hollow. "They bloom in the spring." Outside the clearing, darkness had descended, the clouds roiling and flashing with what appeared to be sparks. "We should leave." Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who looked back at him, his mouth a mocking twist.

"D'you really think we'll be allowed to?" He opened the car door and stepped out.

_Dusk_, the invitation had said. But there was no one here, and the light filling the clearing did not reflect the time of day. Aziraphale lowered his foot onto grass as soft as moss. The flowers rose to his calves. He called out, "Anyone there? Hello?" He joined Crowley in front of the car. The demon was slowly turning on his heel, quartering the grounds with his eyes. To Aziraphale's bewilderment, they could hear birds twittering in the foliage, and a stealthy breeze—not part of the malevolent, twisting skies outside the clearing—wound round them.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said.

Crowley glanced at him and responded with a slight jerk of the head and a philosophical smile. Completing his circuit, he shouted, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" His voice seemed extraordinarily loud amidst the hush. Aziraphale resisted the urge to cringe.

"Crowley—" They moved in unison to face in the direction of a distant noise, fast approaching. Yapping wildly, a small black-and-white creature burst through the undergrowth at the opposite end of the clearing and raced toward them.

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale whispered.

Not a moment later, a larger, also familiar figure, came out of the wood, through a gap in the hedge that Aziraphale would have sworn was not there only seconds ago. The child carried a large bundle in both hands, clasped close to his chest.

"Adam." Crowley said, not sounding the least bit surprised, but neither did he sound welcoming.

The boy crossed the clearing steadily and purposefully. Dog ran circles around him as he came, the air filled with his din. Adam made no effort to quiet him, his expression fixed.

When he was a few feet away, Aziraphale said, "About that book, young man—"

Adam's eyes widened and he lifted his shoulders in an awkward shrug. Then he laid the bundle at Aziraphale's feet. He looked from the demon to the angel, smiled with some expression Aziraphale could not interpret, and turned away, to begin walking, then running, back to the edge of the clearing where he had appeared. In seconds, he was gone, as was the opening in the hedge.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a long look. "I don't think it's a rare book," Crowley mused.

Aziraphale went down on his heels, the bluebells higher than his hips, to examine the object. The outer material was a curious blend of what appeared to be silver and gold fabric, densely woven, and twisted round many times to form a thick, protective padding.

"You could leave it," Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale looked up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but just then the air broke over them with a refulgent light, a thousand times brighter than the sun. It bleached all color out of their surroundings, and everything outside its range was plunged into deepest shadow.

Aziraphale lurched to his feet, shouting, _"Crowley!"_

He knew what was happening, had experienced it himself some six thousand years before. But— _Divine light would destroy him._

And yet, there Crowley stood, mouth open, brows high on his forehead. Still whole. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought crazily, it was a matter of accumulation rather than exposure? If he could move to safety quickly enough, perhaps—

_"Aziraphale."_ The voice of the Almighty filled the clearing, his head, his entire being. He shuddered with it.

"Get out of the light," Aziraphale rasped.

Crowley gave his head a pained, unhappy shake. "Can't."

_"Aziraphale, are you listening to me?"_

"Lord!" His eyes were drawn upward against his will. The brilliant light went on forever, with no beginning, and no end, not even the ground at his feet. He should have been blinded by its sheer intensity, but he could see clearly into its nothingness, his angelic eyes perfectly reflecting its splendor. And in it, despite his state of agitation, his desire to be anywhere but here, some part of him basked in its holiness, a balm to his angelic soul.

_"Aziraphale, my angel of the Eastern Gate."_

"Yes, Lord?" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the demon, standing utterly still, head back, waiting. _But still alive. Please, please, please._

_"Your sword was returned to Head Office. Why?"_

Aziraphale felt as if he would fly into a million pieces. That sword had never brought him anything but grief. He forced himself to concentrate, to collect his thoughts and himself. When he spoke, he believed that he succeeded in sounding calm and almost assured. "Its work was done. Safer there, I thought."

For a dreadful moment, there was only silence. It occurred to him that now would be the perfect time for Sandalphon and Uriel to appear, their own swords drawn, itching to smite. 

The voice spoke again. _"Its work is not done,"_ She said, just a little on the reproving side.

"Oh?"

_"Aziraphale, your love of the earth and its creatures, especially humanity, has not gone unnoticed. Nor have your actions on their behalf."_

"Ah?" Aziraphale's voice came out slightly higher pitched than he would have liked.

_"It is my will that you maintain your guardianship of the earth. There will be adversity: humanity is ever at the edge of its own destruction."_

"As you wish, Lord."

_"I bid you, Aziraphale, my angel, and Protector of the World, pick up your sword._

The words rang in his head with a terrible power. With unsteady hands, he reached down to the bundle and shook it free of its wrappings. It was his own sword, a flaming sword by his will, and he held it again in his grip. He raised it aloft, startled as a sudden, wild elation flowed through him. 

_"Do not lose it,"_ the voice dictated. Was that a hint of amusement? "_And do not give it away."_

"No, Lord," Aziraphale promised, elation painfully giving way to embarrassment. Of course She knew. How could She not? 

_"Anthony J. Crowley. Demon."_

Crowley stiffened. He peeled off his glasses, suspending them at his side, braced his legs a little wider, and lifted his chin. Aziraphale, staring at him in shock, held his breath. "Ma'am?" 

_"You stand in Divine Light by my grace, demon."_

Crowley bowed his head in acknowledgment. 

_"You have been a staunch ally to my angel Aziraphale. And, so, to me."_ There was no missing the significance of Her words. She added, almost gently, _"You are, still, my creation."_ Crowley's shoulders hunched, as if he expected a blow. _"I am granting you a few small favors, as they may come in handy."_

"Erm, thank you, Ma'am," Crowley said. Aziraphale could almost hear his mind working. _What are they these favors and what do I do with them?_

_"And, Crowley—"_

"Yes, Ma'am?" 

_"See to it that he doesn't lose that sword again."_

A smile twitched at the corner of Crowley's mouth. He turned his head to look into Aziraphale's eyes. "Right. Ma'am. I will. He won't." 

Between one second and the next, the light shattered and was gone. Aziraphale felt its absence like a blow. Dusk had passed, and the first stars were winking overhead. There were no black, boiling clouds, no slashes of lightning. The air was still and calm; even the birds had quieted. The only difference that Aziraphale could see was in the ground around him. Where the light had shone, the bluebells were inexplicably taller and thicker, reaching above his knees. They wove between the bumper and the grille of the Bentley and nosed into its wheel wells. 

Crowley sat down all at once, as if his legs had given out. "I should be dead," he breathed. "That was Divine Light. I should be _ash._" 

"You _are_ all right?" Aziraphale laid the sword on the shimmering fabric and went to crouch in front of him, not touching, but examining every visible inch of him. 

"Me? Fine. The Almighty tells _me_ to keep _you_ from losing that—" Crowley gestured wildly in the direction of the sword. He filled his lungs with a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm fine." He dropped his forehead onto his drawn-up knees. In a shredded whisper, he said, "Never thought I'd hear Her voice again." 

"Nor did I." The wonder and the shock mingled in his voice as well. He put a hand on Crowley's head, allowing it simply to rest there. A long moment passed while the demon seemed to steady himself. Very quietly, Aziraphale began, "You should know—" 

"What?" Crowley frowned up at him. 

He pointed at the grille. "The bluebells are taking over your car." He lowered his hand, his fingers slowly shaping Crowley's head as they moved to his shoulder, a caress, and a reassurance to himself that Crowley was truly uninjured. The demon shivered. "Come on, then." Aziraphale offered his hand to him. "Up you come." 

Crowley took it. He did not let go at once, seeming to draw strength from Aziraphale's grasp. Finally he looked round and stared at his car, a strange mix of confusion and dismay on his face. "So they are." 

Aziraphale left him so that he could see to the sword. He picked it up, remembering Her words, kindly rebuking when they could have been stinging, and began to fold it into the gold and silver fabric. He was tightly tucking the ends into place, when Crowley wondered aloud, "Why here, angel?" Aziraphale was relieved to hear him sounding much more like himself. 

"You mean, Oxfordshire—and Adam?" At Crowley's assenting nod, he considered."I don't want to speculate, but it seems unlikely that it's a coincidence." He went to the passenger backseat and stowed the sword. "If you back straight out, you shouldn't destroy too many of the Lord's bluebells." 

"We all have to live with the consequences of our actions," Crowley muttered darkly. He climbed into the driver's seat, and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Aziraphale settled in beside him. "Aziraphale?" 

"Yes?" 

"I think—" He sighed. "I think I've just been seconded to the Other Side." 

Aziraphale made sympathetic noises. "There are worse things, surely." 

Crowley sighed again. "Don't know about that. You ready?" Without waiting for Aziraphale's reply, he touched the keyhole for the ignition and the engine roared to life. "Long drive ahead of us. And I suppose you'll want to stop somewhere along the way." 

"Oh." Aziraphale looked up, startled. "Actually, there is a lovely restaurant just off the M40 at the foot of the Chilterns. I have the directions." 

"Right." 

* * * 

"How do you know this place?" Crowley asked, as he guided the car onto the slip road. 

"A magazine article?" Aziraphale replied artlessly. "Advertisement?" His hands were clasped in his lap, thumbs sliding over and under each other in unhurried but constant motion. 

The motion, however, drew Crowley's eyes. In fact, Aziraphale had felt the weight of his sidelong glances off and on since they left the clearing "You worried about something? Only, you've been twitching for a while now." 

"Have I?" Aziraphale stilled his hands. "Not every day the Almighty takes me to task, is it?" He wanted to fidget, but must not. "And I'm hungry, I suppose. Haven't eaten since this morning. Erm, turn there, left." 

"Looks to be heaving." Crowley scowled. "We may have to park across the way. Unless you'd rather go somewhere else? There's a diner just down the road." 

"I don't mind," Aziraphale assured him. "A walk after all this sitting will do us good." 

Crowley raised a skeptical brow. The Bentley cruised the car park, all around the restaurant-hotel complex, the demon slowly shaking his head. As they came round to the other side, right at the front, a couple, man and woman, emerged from the building and hurried to a car that was parked just outside the entrance. They piled into it urgently. The man appeared to be feeling poorly, holding a hand to his belly. 

"Oh, look," Aziraphale said, pleased. 

Crowley was clearly impressed. "Did you do that?" 

The angel shook his head, no. "Maybe?" 

"Works for me." Crowley drove the Bentley into the conveniently vacated space. "She wouldn't count that against you, I'm sure." He grinned sharkishly. "And, anyway, your sword will be safer here in front of the building." 

"I'm hiding it all the same." Aziraphale would much prefer never to have that conversation again. He waved a hand and, with the tiniest of miracles, the bundle on the backseat was concealed from human sight. 

"Anyone touches this car, I'll know." Crowley snapped his fingers. The door locks engaged and the headlamps went out. 

They walked into the restaurant and were immediately greeted by a friendly young man who led them to a recently cleared table. Crowley took in their surroundings and murmured approvingly. "Nice place." 

"Hm." Aziraphale slipped on his glasses and began to peruse the menu. 

Some while later, Aziraphale patted his mouth, folded his napkin, and set it next to his plate. He glanced across at Crowley to find himself the focus of his attention. Throughout their meal, an apple crumble with a scoop of ice cream and coffees for two, their conversation had extended no further than the excellent quality of their coffees and the tastiness of Aziraphale's dessert. "What is it?" 

Crowley gestured with the mug in his hand. "You've hardly touched that. Thought you were hungry." 

"I was." 

Crowley gave him an assessing look. "Yeah, well, it's been a weird day." He finished his coffee."I'm ready to go if you are." 

"About that." 

"About what?" Crowley folded his arms on the edge of the table and slouched forward. When Aziraphale didn't immediately answer, he employed his spoon to scoop up some of the melting ice cream off his plate. 

His throat dry, Aziraphale said, "I've reserved a room for the night." He raised his eyes to read Crowley's reaction. "Here. At the hotel." 

Crowley slowly set the spoon down, its contents untouched. Ten seconds was a long time to wait when expecting an immediate response. Aziraphale felt himself growing flustered, could feel his cheeks reddening. He opened his mouth to say that they could drive on to London, of course they could, when Crowley broke his silence at last. "A room." Aziraphale nodded, trying not to shrivel inside. The demon could be unreadable at the best of times, but Aziraphale had not thought this would be one of them. But then one of those rare, uncomplicated smiles lit up Crowley's face. "Aziraphale," he said, so quietly, so intimately, that no one else could possibly have overheard, "you are a bloody miracle." 

Aziraphale exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Really?" 

"Really." Crowley pulled the plate closer and loaded the spoon with crumble and ice cream. Leaning near, he raised it to Aziraphale's lips. "Eat up, angel." His eyes, visible over the rim of his shades, were dark with anticipation. "You've a long night ahead of you." 


	4. Revelations

Crowley keyed the door to the hotel room open and held it wide, waving Aziraphale through ahead of him. The room was basically equipped, with a double bed at its center, a couple of small nightstands, a narrow desk with tea-making facilities, an en suite bathroom, and a tiny alcove with hanging space.

'It's not much, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said. He set the sword, still in its wrapping, in the alcove. He had quickly fetched it from the Bentley while Crowley settled their bill, knowing that he would have been uneasy so long as it was out of his custody. 

Crowley gestured toward the bed. "Everything we need."

"Ah."

"Or—" Crowley dropped the keycard on the table, and walked slowly toward the angel. "We could wait and take a room at the Dorchester. The Savoy. The Ritz. Wherever you like." Standing very close, fingers in his front pockets, Crowley twitched his shoulders. "Or we could just sleep. Or, I could sleep, and you could—"

Aziraphale stopped whatever he might say next with his mouth. Crowley moved closer, but kept his hands in his pockets. Aziraphale's entire being vibrated with a strange mix of lust—a new and dangerous sensation—and vulnerability. He cupped Crowley's cheek with a palm, their lips parting with a soft sound.

Crowley, his breathing uneven, looked long into Aziraphale's eyes. "Here, then?"

Aziraphale smiled weakly. "Yes?"

The demon seemed to hear the whole of his answer: _Yes, I think so. Yes, I'm nervous. Yes, I'm not sure._ Crowley said, "However slow or fast you like, angel. And if you change your mind—" he pulled a face that stated his preference "–just say."

"I won't change my mind." To prove it, he slid the jacket off his shoulders, folded it neatly, and laid it over one of the two chairs that stood under the window. With a tug his bow tie came undone and joined the jacket. His fingers began to undo the buttons on his waistcoat when Crowley dropped to his heels at Aziraphale's feet. Shocked into stillness, he watched as Crowley ran his hands down the outside of his legs until they reached his laces, which he deftly untied. Aziraphale had thought the demon might intend something more involved—and, yes, thrilling—but obediently raised each foot to have his brogues pulled off in turn, until he stood in tartan socks. Crowley took care of those, too, peeling them off his feet, along with the garters. 

And then, rising to stand before him, as lithe and sinuous as the creature he once was, Crowley hooked his fingers on Aziraphale's waistband. They waited there, on either side of the clasp, silently asking permission. Aziraphale managed a jerky nod. He swallowed hard as nimble fingers eased open the clasp, then rocked each button free of its station, working down the length of the fly. Crowley tugged the trousers off his hips, encouraging the fabric to pool around his ankles. Aziraphale placed an unsteady hand on Crowley's shoulder until each leg was free.

"Aziraphale," he breathed, and covered Aziraphale's mouth once more with his own. While they kissed, Crowley undid the buttons of his waistcoat, and then his shirt. When both hung open, he pushed them off Aziraphale's arms. He flattened his palms against Aziraphale's chest and the sleeveless union suit covering him from shoulder to knee. His lips dropped to Aziraphale's throat, and his hands slipped beneath the fabric of the undergarment. "Oh, I like this," he murmured. Aziraphale shuddered. Crowley trailed kisses, hot and wet, down his chest as his skin was exposed, down further as he slid the fabric off his body.

Awash in a dizzying rush of desire, Aziraphale tugged at Crowley's jacket lapels. The demon, interpreting his request correctly, removed his clothing with a thought. With hands clasped round Aziraphale's hips, he brought them together. The sensation, the friction of flesh against flesh was overwhelming. Aziraphale moaned.

"Bed, angel," Crowley said, and snapped his fingers. In response, the bedclothes folded back, and the mattress awaited them. He guided Aziraphale to the bed, and laid him there, cushioned by soft sheets and downy pillows. Crowley followed, sliding his knees between Aziraphale's thighs. He lowered himself into place, bracing himself on his forearms, and paused, his eyes bright and very yellow. Even now, when both were manifestly aware of the other's desire, he waited for Aziraphale's consent. The angel, his face dreamy with pleasure, whispered, "Oh, yes." Crowley bent closer and brought their mouths together yet again. And, as the kiss deepened, he began to move.

* * *

A tap came at the door. Amid the hazy, first light of dawn, Aziraphale slipped out from under Crowley's arm and padded across the floor. He pulled the door open slowly, confirming that the tray he had requested had been left on their threshold. With a quick survey down the hall, he picked it up and brought it inside. Once he had arranged a plate of toast and a lovely hot cup of tea on the bedside table, he returned to bed, pillows mounded behind him, the sheet drawn up to his chest. No sooner had he settled than Crowley stirred. From a sprawl that had taken up more than half the mattress, he curled onto his side around Aziraphale, a proprietary arm and leg hooked over him. Kissing the top of his head, and with a bit of tugging and sliding, Aziraphale rearranged the sheet around them both.

He had requested a room facing east. The bed lay at an angle to the window, but Aziraphale's view of the purples and pinks that festooned the horizon was sufficient to please him. While Crowley slumbered, he ate his toast and drank his tea, suffused with a profound satisfaction.

Last night had been a revelation, in many ways. Crowley had proven himself a tender and generous lover, and their lovemaking had been exquisite. Their first time had been a little awkward, a little fumbling, but their passion had carried them to a pinnacle of shared, shocking pleasure. They quickly learned the touches that were most pleasing, most rousing, and the kind of kissing that could ignite everything.

Crowley shifted again, one hand moving up Aziraphale's chest to his shoulder, where it came to lie quietly. Aziraphale removed the cup and plate to the table and folded his arms around the demon, a terrible fondness welling within him. Uninvited, the moment when divine light had blazed down upon them seized his memory. In that instant he had known with utter certainty that Crowley would be destroyed and his own life would be made empty. It was a reminder that, even though they bore mortal forms, they were on this earth only at the sufferance of their respective groups. And either side could see to their removal or demise at any time and for any reason.

Crowley made a querulous sound: Aziraphale realized that he was holding him too tightly. He forced himself to relax and soothed his bedmate with soft words. They had chosen a perilous path, allying themselves as, first, associates, then friends, and now lovers, the latter development only enhancing the danger of their relationship. Crowley snuffled, pushed himself higher onto Aziraphale's chest, and subsided.

While Aziraphale absently carded Crowley's hair with deft fingers, his thoughts returned once more to that clearing in Oxfordshire. The Almighty knew of their closeness; She must. It was by Her design that both Aziraphale and Crowley were lured there, after all. He had no doubt that the ringing that had wakened Crowley from a miraculously deep sleep must have been Her doing. And then, in some ways even more disturbing, there was Adam, the half-human, half-demonic child, who now, apparently, was doing the Lord's bidding. The Lord hadn't seconded Crowley to Heaven's side, Aziraphale thought; she had created Her own side, and the three of them were now her—what? Legates? And if that were true, why? She already had Heaven and Hell (no matter what the denizens of the latter might think; she could rehabilitate them or eradicate them with a thought). And, of course, she had Earth, with its humanity.

Aziraphale was staring at the paling sky, the sun now rising above the clouds, when a butterfly-soft touch began to move down the middle of his chest toward his abdomen. Crowley gazed up at him, eyes wide open. Aziraphale caught his hand before it could reach its destination and erase all thought. "Crowley," he said seriously, "I've been thinking."

"Uhn," Crowley groaned. "I knew it."

Mystified, Aziraphale asked, "Knew what?"

"You're going to say you've had a crisis of conscience and you're never going to see me again."

"Why would I say that?"

Crowley freed his hand and resumed its downward path. "Your lot don't approve of this sort of thing, do they."

"They don't?" Aziraphale let out a gasp as Crowley's fingers found and wrapped around him. "Of course they do." He inhaled shakily. "If there's love."

"Oh, yes?" The sheet billowed above them, and Crowley disappeared under it. For several moments all was silent save for Aziraphale's uneven, sometimes harsh breathing and soft, wet noises emanating from beneath the sheet. When Crowley emerged again, his hair going in several different directions, Aziraphale lay shattered and a little lightheaded. Crowley leaned over him for another kiss before stretching out beside him and pulling the compliant angel into his arms. "You saying you love me, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale looked up at him through dazed eyes, a tiny sweet smile wreathing his lips. "You know that I do."

"Show me," Crowley whispered.

* * *

"So, what did you want to tell me?" Crowley's words came out sluggish, drawling, betraying his state of contented exhaustion.

"I have no idea." Aziraphale lay on his side with his head on Crowley's belly, surprisingly drowsy for someone who rarely slept. "But I think it must be time for breakfast."

"Looks to be a plate of toast over there. Will that do?"

"You know better." Aziraphale gathered his energy and pushed himself up to loom over the demon, who wrapped him in a crushing hug. "We could not possibly do this every night." He sounded more than a little stunned.

"Perhaps," Crowley said. "But we could—" 

"Not another word." Aziraphale stopped him with a kiss. The kiss was lazy and familiar and filled Aziraphale with a joy that was more heavenly than divine light. "That's what it was!"

"That's what _what_ was?" Crowley blinked up at him.

Aziraphale broke free of Crowley's arms and scooted to the edge of the bed. "I'll tell you at breakfast. Right now I'm going to take a shower." He extended a hand and raised his brows in silent invitation.

Crowley's answering smile comprised one part speculation and two parts promise. "Let me help you."

* * *

"So, you think the Almighty has chosen you and me—and Adam—for some special purpose?"

The Bentley was currently cruising at twenty miles per hour below the posted limit owing to the London-bound traffic congesting the motorway. They had dawdled over breakfast, every bite of which Aziraphale had insisted on finishing. Crowley had looked on with amused toleration and occasionally helped himself to a bite or two off his plate. Consequently, it was nearly noon before they were back on the M40 and heading south.

"She devised a way to have both of us return to Oxfordshire. And She must be communicating with Adam somehow. Even if my sword appeared in his room, he'd have no reason to bring it to that place, without some direction."

"But he'd probably guess it was yours."

"Yes. The one weapon I didn't threaten him with." He sighed. "Yet, despite being half-demon, he could handle it."

"Maybe that's because of the stuff it's wrapped up in."

"Hadn't thought of that, but true. We could always test it on you." Aziraphale ignored the rude noise Crowley made, his eyes on the verge, which seemed to be passing by a little more quickly now. "Seems awfully elaborate just to return my sword."

"She did give you a new title," Crowley pointed out. Assuming the plummy tones of a radio announcer, he said grandly, "Protector of the World." 

Aziraphale gave him a testy look. "But you see? If all She wanted was for me to have my sword back, why involve you?" 

"I do see. Can't say I like it much, either."

They lapsed into silence, lost in their own thoughts. Aziraphale broke it, murmuring, "What could we three do now that would warrant bringing us together—now that there's no imminent threat?"

"Well, all I have to do is make sure you don't lose that damned, erm, blessed sword again. And I expect you to help with that."

"Do my best," Aziraphale said with some tartness. "I suppose there's really no point in worrying about it. Mysterious ways, and all that." But his eyes remained clouded and he continued to puzzle over the Almighty's intentions as they made their way into London.

* * *

Crowley pulled the car to the curb in front of A. Z. Fell and Co., paying no mind to the annoyed vehicle honks sounding behind him. "We are doing dinner later, yes?"

Cautiously removing the bundled sword from the backseat, Aziraphale mindfully straightened up, and then pushed the door shut. He hurriedly left the road, going round the back of the Bentley. At Crowley's window, he bent over and kissed him. "Wherever you like," he agreed.

Crowley stared up at him, eyes wide. 

"It's what couples do," Aziraphale said, interpreting Crowley's startled look. "Seven?"

"Right." He produced a slightly crazed smile, and with a twist of the wrist spun the steering wheel and plunged the car into traffic. Amid the shrieks of brakes and shouted profanities, he barreled away. Aziraphale looked after him until he couldn't bear the suspense anymore. He knew Crowley would let nothing damage his car, but the uproar caused in his wake could be distressing to witness.


	5. Hell Fire

In his backroom, comfortably ensconced in his favorite chair, Aziraphale was listening to a recording of something not by Queen, whose oeuvre he was by now well familiar with—and for which contempt had definitely been bred. This recording's soothing strings and gentle horns had lulled him into near somnolence, the cup of tea balanced on his knee almost forgotten. His most recent read, a novel about the fifteenth century, lay open in his lap, also almost forgotten. Instead, fervid thoughts of the previous night; sudden, vividly recalled sensation; and the susurrus of hushed, urgent words seemed to have overrun his mind, leaving little room for concentration on anything of the here and now. 

When the bell over the door rang, Aziraphale took it as a welcome distraction. He was on his feet and leaving the backroom when it occurred to him that it was early for Crowley to arrive—only half past three. But no one else could have caused the bell to ring, as the shop was closed. He rounded the bookcases that separated the backroom from the main floor, calling, "Crowley?"

A movement in the shadow of the bookcase nearest the entry made him stumble backward. It was Sandalphon. The burly angel reached up and jostled the bell yet again, the jangle of its ringing inordinately loud. Like a lumbering nightmare, he started to advance. Aziraphale spun round to seek safety—his sword—in the backroom. And ran full into Uriel, who grabbed his wrists with one hand, while he staggered to right himself, and then miracled a length of constricting binding around them with the other. She forced him round again, just in time to meet Sandalphon. He knew what was coming, but had no way to prepare before Sandalphon slammed his fist into his solar plexus. He had struck him before, but this time the blow was delivered with the power and violence of hatred.

The pain was excruciating, but worse was the sickening absence of air. As an angel, he shouldn't need it. But, having chosen to live on earth as a human, he had accustomed himself to it, and his mortal lungs panicked at its loss. Sandalphon crouched, and with Uriel's help, hefted him onto his shoulder. Blackness hovered at the edge of his vision. He had a faint impression of movement, of plowing through oblivious passers-by on the pavement, a glimpse of a black taxi with an open door, then a seemingly long moment of free fall. He landed on his side, scraping his head on something sharp as he hunched forward to protect himself. Despite the added pain, he managed to suck in some air, then another gasp, and another, until he was breathing again.

During that time, two sets of feet joined him on the floor, one of which shoved against him until he was forced onto his front, his cheek flat against the gritty mat, the other grinding into the small of his back, fixing him in place. "What," he choked out, "are you doing?"

"Shut your mouth, traitor." That was Sandalphon. "Or we'll gag you."

Blood began to pool around Aziraphale's head. He tried to shift out of it, but received a heel at the back of his neck as a result. Still queasy from the blow to his middle and aching in places where there wasn't acute pain, Aziraphale decided it was best simply to endure. Once his head was a little clearer, he tried to track the direction of the cab, visualizing stops and turns against a well-known image of the A to Z. They were traveling eastward, that much he could tell. Beyond that, nothing with certainty.

He knew without being told that he was being taken to the place of his death. His real death, and not just an unpleasant discorporation—though he expected the real death would involve a very painful discorporation first. He had heard it in Sandalphon's voice, an avid vindictiveness along with a cold, reptilian hatred. Eternal death had always been a possibility, a huge void of nothingness that did not frighten him. But it was the surety that they would turn their righteous vengeance on Crowley next that brought him torment.

The steady juddering movement of the car as it rolled over seemingly endless miles induced a kind of trance state. In it, Aziraphale was able to focus his thoughts on some of what had happened recently. Last night, of course, was foremost. Such tenderness, such passion, such exhilaration had been beyond his imagining. The love he felt drove out all pain and fear. He had been truly blessed to have so great a friend—whose love for him he had never doubted—through all the years of his long, long life.

And he wondered if whatever the Almighty had intended in that field of bluebells would somehow protect Crowley as he had been unable to protect himself. She had mentioned favors. Aziraphale hoped they might bring Crowley comfort after he was gone.

The car slowed to a stop. It then angled sharply to the right and proceeded down a rough drive. They had left the motorway some time ago, traveled down a single carriageway for some distance, and now, Aziraphale suspected, were nearing their destination. A very few minutes later, the car stopped and the driver switched off the engine.

It was quiet here, and there was birdsong. The country, then, Aziraphale thought. Uriel and Sandalphon opened their doors and climbed out. He started to roll over to see if he could get some sense of his surroundings, when Uriel grabbed his ankles and dragged him out through the open door. She braced him so that he didn't fall in a heap at her feet, then shoved him against the body of the car so that he remained upright. Dizziness surged over him, and for a short time he felt consciousness pulling away, like a wave receding from the sand. All at once Sandalphon was there, a hand manacling his upper arm, and he was marched and, sometimes hauled, toward a large building. 

Blood matted the left side of his face, and partially obscured his vision. He tried to rub his eye clear against his other arm, but Uriel came up alongside him and seized it before he had done more than bloody his sleeve.

"How long?" Sandalphon asked.

"A few minutes," Uriel replied.

They manhandled him toward a narrow door in a large, boxy building. A brief sweeping glance told him that they were indeed in the country. In the distance there were rolling hills, trees, and hedges. Carried on the breeze came the scent of sheep and, almost, he thought he could hear them. There was a small sign on the door, proclaiming that it was an employees' only entrance. Once inside, his eyes were slow to adjust to the dim interior, but he knew now exactly where they were, if not the name of the place. The residual odor of burned bodies, the dry sift of ash which never left the air: they were inside a crematory.

"Why are you doing this?" Aziraphale demanded weakly.

Uriel smiled her sweet, glacial smile. "You tricked us. You and your demon boyfriend. We figured it out, though. How you had to inhabit each other's skin so that 'you' could escape Hell Fire and 'he' could survive Holy Water. Disgusting."

"Call it tying up loose ends," Sandalphon suggested, and chuckled.

After passing through a series of dark, badly lit corridors, they came into the main hall. At its end stood a tall structure, enclosed on all sides. In the center, facing them, was the open mouth of the furnace. It stood black and forbidding, waiting to be brought to furious, lethal life.

"Murdering me is a loose end?" He wondered how these two were not already Fallen.

"The execution of a traitor is not murder," Uriel explained patiently. "Besides, Gabriel already sentenced you."

They loosened their hold, but did not release him entirely. For fear he would run? Aziraphale wasn't sure if he could even stand unaided. "So Gabriel knows about this?" Aziraphale blinked hard, fighting another bout of dizziness.

"He has more important things to attend to," Sandalphon said. "Thanks to you." His hostility was almost palpable. But then he turned, grinning, his eyes alight with mischief, to look Aziraphale full in the face. "Is your boyfriend dead yet?"

The question cleared Aziraphale's mind in a way that the crisp country air and fear of imminent death had not. "What are you talking about?"

"The Duke Hastur," Uriel explained. She enjoyed telling him this: she was alight with the same eager cruelty he'd seen on Sandalphon's face. "He's going to do for your demon. We gave him some … tools, you might say. Even if Hastur fails outright, Crowley'll die soon enough of our poison."

Aziraphale felt something ease inside him. He had been right about Crowley's lack of healing. But he summoned a horrified frown. So long as they thought Crowley was dead or dying, the demon would be safe. Relief awakened Aziraphale's naturally charitable disposition, which had been bruised by their casual brutality. He took a deep breath, though it burned his chest. "Look, I don't think you understand what you're dealing with."

"Oh, we don't?" Sandalphon raised his brows, his tone scornful.

"There are higher powers involved," Aziraphale said with grave insistence. "You are risking your immortal souls."

"_You're_ saying that to _us_?" Uriel laughed out loud. 

"This isn't Heaven," Aziraphale said. "Do you really think Gabriel will defend you if he is called to answer for this?"

"And which higher power do you think is going to complain about anything happening to _you_?" Sandalphon made no effort to conceal his loathing. "You are nothing!"

"I have to warn you—" Aziraphale was interrupted as the ground near the furnace seemed to boil, stones and concrete chunks rising and tumbling to either side around a small opening. Up through the rubble appeared a demon carrying a large container of fiercely glowing stones. 

"At last." Sandalphon said, greatly pleased.

The demon looked round, spotted the furnace entrance and heaved the stones into it. Instantly an immense fire filled the interior, intense heat reaching even to where they stood, several feet away. Before the ground could repair itself, the demon jumped into the ruins and disappeared. The earth settled, the cement smoothing over itself as if it had never been disturbed.

"You were warning us?" Uriel prompted sweetly.

"Let's go." Sandalphon took hold of Aziraphale's arm and nodded toward Uriel to do the same on the other side. Together they half-carried, half-dragged him to the mouth of the furnace. The heat as they approached was terrible—and terrifying. It would, Aziraphale consoled himself, at least be quick.

When they came within a couple of feet of the opening, all flinching from the shriveling blast, Uriel sang, "Goodbye, demon lover." They swung him off his feet, each one grasping him partway around the chest, and holding a thigh and, together, began to bear him, headfirst, to the fire.

_Time stood still._

Aziraphale's forward momentum was suddenly lost, and he fell to the concrete floor, knees and bound forearms taking the brunt of the impact. He rocked back on his heels, glancing round to find the source of his rescue. An explosive curse overhead drew his eyes upward—in fact, he realized, as his mind processed what he had been hearing, there had been a lot of cursing—and there was Crowley, hovering almost directly above him, black wings spread wide. His mouth was open, teeth bared, looking terrifyingly enraged; and his eyes, uncovered, were fully yellow and very serpent-like, equally daunting. But most astonishing—and impossible—was Aziraphale's sword, held in his right hand, coruscating flames coursing wildly along the length of the blade.

For a dreadful moment, Aziraphale thought he must be dreaming. Perhaps these were the last hopeful lights in the dying corners of his mind, before his essence was devoured by the fire into which he really had been thrust. But then Crowley spoke. "Out of the way, Aziraphale." The raw fury in his voice was like a bludgeon. "I'm going to kill them." 

Aziraphale remembered where he was, crouched on the floor between the two frozen angels. They stood poised to toss him into the flame—also frozen in time—and were completely defenseless. Crowley could cut them down like saplings, with no effort at all. But as he turned to creep out from between their legs, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the shoulder of his jacket, drenched red with blood. His blood. "Well, damn it!" he complained. Despite all that he had been through—and perhaps it was only the shock of _not dying_—this annoyed him almost as much as all the rest.

"Aziraphale, I said move." Crowley was almost incandescent with rage, and his voice was hot with a bloodlust that Aziraphale had never heard before.

"Yes, yes." His head hurt, the condition of his jacket was infuriating, and he had just survived the indignity of assault and attempted murder. But he retained enough presence of mind to say, "You can't kill them, Crowley."

"Don't even think of trying to talk me out of it," the demon flared back.

"No, of course not." He sucked in a deep, steadying breath. Standing slowly, Aziraphale squared his shoulders, adjusted his bow tie and his ravaged jacket. Lifting his chin, he said flatly, "But I'm afraid you can't."

"They were going to kill you!" Crowley roared. His words reverberated round the open hall, ringing painfully loud in Aziraphale's ears.

Aziraphale held up his bound wrists in silent supplication. "We have to discuss it."

Some of the savagery faded from Crowley's face, leaving behind a mixture of dismay and deep unhappiness. "I don't want to discuss it," he said, nevertheless dropping down to stand in front of him. "I only want to kill them."

"I do understand," Aziraphale sympathized. Crowley laid the very tip of the sword on his bonds. They sizzled and blackened, then drifted, as ash, to the floor. Aziraphale felt his eyes widen: the sword should not have caused that kind of damage to angelic bonds. Pensively rubbing his wrists, he wondered if an angelic sword, driven by demonic will, should even be possible. "One of Her favors?" he murmured.

"What?"

"Not important. Look—" His mind was clearing, the pain receding—because the spelled cords were gone? It allowed him to remember himself and what was important. He stepped closer and kissed Crowley's mouth. "Thank you." Crowley groaned, the sound of it stretching into a deep, gravelly rumble, and kissed him back, shockingly gentle despite his still evident temper. Aziraphale let himself, for only a moment, bask in the demon's love. And then he returned his focus to the situation at hand. "Killing them will not persuade Heaven to leave us alone."

"If I'd been even five seconds later—"

"But you weren't. Crowley, I don't like it any better than you do, but right now you have the power of mercy. With it, you can—"

Crowley seethed. "Not feeling merciful, angel."

"Well, no. Neither am I, actually. They're the reason you didn't heal properly. You know, after Hastur … did what he did to you."

Crowley's brows bunched closer together. "They helped him? _They helped Hastur?!_"

"Yes. Some kind of poison. If I hadn't, well—" Aziraphale waved his hand dismissively. "But you can make them leave us alone."

Crowley angled the sword meaningfully in their direction. "That's what I've been saying."

"Without killing them," Aziraphale said. "You can make them swear never to harm us, or threaten us, or conspire against us. Or even just annoy us."

"Make them swear," Crowley repeated sardonically. "Right. And what's to stop them breaking their promise?"

"Fear. An angel's oath is sacred. You remember. If they break it, they are Fallen." He added peevishly, "Although I do think these two are more than halfway there already."

"And for this?" Crowley gestured bitterly toward Aziraphale and the furnace behind him. "What if they had succeeded?"

"There would have been no punishment." Aziraphale sighed and shrugged. "I had been sentenced." Before Crowley could further indulge his outrage, Aziraphale went on, "Gabriel doesn't know. It's possible—remotely—if you show them mercy now—well, he may rethink things."

"You're not that naive."

"Sadly, no. But if you kill them, he will be compelled to retaliate. You know we can't fight all of Heaven."

Crowley's mouth was set mulishly, his jaw hard. "And if they refuse?"

Ridiculously, Aziraphale hadn't even considered that possibility. "If they refuse—" He spread his hands, having no real answer. "Then you have my blessing to do what you feel you must do."

The last of the seething rage seemed to drain out of Crowley, and he lowered the sword to his side. His wings came forward, surrounding Aziraphale. He brushed his lips against Aziraphale's temple. The crackling pain lying deep beneath the surface there instantly vanished. He could tell, by the release of tightness on his skin, that the blood coating the side of his face had gone, as well. And he knew, without looking, that his jacket was almost certainly pristine. Crowley kissed him once more, with such tenderness and caring, Aziraphale was unbearably moved. The demon raised his head at last, his voice a raspy whisper. "Now, move, angel." And then he was airborne again, powerful wings providing the necessary lift to rise high above the crematory floor. He bobbed slowly up and down with each flap, waiting until Aziraphale had distanced himself well away from the furnace entry.

Crowley snapped the fingers of his left hand and, with a jolt of demonic will, time restarted.

Sandalphon and Uriel, once more bent on propelling a body into the furnace, but now sans body, stumbled, lost their balance, and fell to the floor. They stared at each other, then swung round in unison. "How—?" Sandalphon grunted, spotting Aziraphale across the room. Aziraphale raised a finger and pointed upward. Both angels twisted to see what he was gesturing toward, and at that moment, Crowley slanted his wings to form a blast of air that tumbled them perilously closer to the furnace.

"You!" Hatred deformed Sandalphon's cherubic face. 

"Yup," Crowley agreed, amiably. "So—who wants to die first?"

Too far away to be of any use to anyone, Aziraphale clasped his hands together and forgot to breathe. He watched the two angels clamber to their feet, glaring impotent death toward the demon overhead.

"With that? It must be an illusion." Sandalphon took a boxer's stance, though Aziraphale suspected he had never fought fair in his long existence. Uriel, however, seemed wary, putting a hand on his arm, to still him.

"Must it, though?" Crowley dipped the point toward them. "I know an excellent way to find out."

"Wait," Uriel said. "It can't be real. You're a demon."

"It doesn't matter," Sandalphon cut in belligerently. "Two of us against you. And him?" He cast a scathing look in Aziraphale's direction. "You think you can beat us?"

"Well, _he_ killed your friend, Duke Hastur," Crowley said silkily. Both angels looked gratifyingly dismayed. "Other than smiting and turning some slow humans to salt, what have you done?"

"You can't really believe—" Uriel was cut off when Crowley brought his wings down hard again, driving them to within inches of the furnace opening. She squeaked.

"Not a doubt in my mind." Crowley watched coldly as they scrambled to their feet again. "But Aziraphale tells me that if you swear an oath to leave us alone, I have to let you go." He frowned thoughtfully. "Unharmed. Me, I hope you'll refuse."

Sandalphon, predictably, was not prepared to concede. "He's a traitor! You're both traitors!"

"And he's the only reason you're not already dead," Crowley snapped. Aziraphale knew that Crowley's patience was wearing thin. He wondered if the two angels appreciated their very real peril. "Refuse, Sandalphon. Nothing would make me happier."

Uriel gripped Sandalphon's arm. "Let Gabriel see to them," she said urgently. "That's Hell Fire in there! Any closer and we'll be destroyed."

Sandalphon shook himself free of her. "I don't believe—" But Uriel grabbed his shoulders and gave him a teeth-rattling shake. "Stop it! It's not going to be me explaining how you got yourself killed." She directed herself to Crowley. "I'll do it. I'll swear."

"Then say it," Crowley commanded. "You will not threaten, attempt to harm, or conspire to harm—or even just piss off—either of us. Ever again."

Uriel, her face ashen, recited his words exactly. She then jabbed Sandalphon with an elbow, and not gently. "Do it."

Sandalphon's face was suffused with choler, his lips clamped shut. But he took a long, furious breath and repeated what Uriel had said, word for word, each one clearly a blow to his soul.

"Right." To their shock, Crowley buffeted them yet again, but this time angled his wings so that they were pushed into the corner alongside the opening. In that same instant, he dropped down and stabbed the blade into the furnace. There was a hideous shriek and the Hell Fire was gone. The blade of the sword, in contrast, flared up, flames leaping wildly, as if it had absorbed the Hell Fire's malign intent. The two angels stared at it, astonished.

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale said, equally shocked. It appeared that his sword had gone rogue.

Crowley gestured toward the door of the chamber with the point of the sword. "Out." The flames seemed to surge toward the angels, and they shied away, almost falling over each other in their haste. 

Skirting him as widely as they could, they edged along the inside wall. Both radiated a confusion of emotions, the greatest of which was humiliation mingled with anger; the least, remorse. At the door, Sandalphon paused to turn back, a demented look in his eyes, but he was unceremoniously yanked outside by Uriel. Crowley waited a moment longer, as if tracking their departure with a sight other than his eyes. Satisfied at last, he murmured something Aziraphale could not hear. The flames extinguished and the sword became only a sharply edged weapon with a great deal of potential. He walked back to Aziraphale, holding it out to him. "Ouch." At the same moment, his wings folded inward and disappeared from sight.

Aziraphale took the sword, a sharp prickling briefly running through his hand as it slotted into his grip. "Show me."

Uncurling his fingers, Crowley displayed his palm. It was bright red and covered with small angry blisters. Aziraphale took it in his free hand and raised it to his lips. Physical contact was not necessary to perform this particular healing, but it had been a harrowing afternoon. "Hm, better," Crowley murmured. He curved the healed palm around Aziraphale's cheek and bent his head to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's temple. "Let's go home, angel."

Crowley's car waited outside the door, near the abandoned taxicab. As Crowley climbed behind the steering wheel, Aziraphale laid the sword, freshly wrapped in the gleaming gold and silver fabric that Crowley had left abandoned on the floor, on the passenger backseat. That weird tingle had disappeared, but he had never experienced it before, and was somewhat nettled by this curious behavior. Of course, the sword had been out of his possession for millennia—but even during its return in Tadfield, it had not exhibited that kind of strangeness. He closed the door and, with an absorbed expression, turned toward the taxicab.

"What are you doing, angel?" Crowley called.

"Blood on the floor. No need to excite the local constabulary when the car is recovered." Holding the door just wide enough to insert an arm, he vanished the macabre remains of his wound with a flick of his hand. Another small miracle, one that in the usual scheme of things would have gone unnoticed by Heaven. If by chance Heaven was watching now, though, he hoped there was at least some embarrassment, even though he would have preferred outright shame.

He sank into the leather seat beside Crowley and closed his eyes. A hand came to rest on his thigh, squeezing assurance. Aziraphale covered it with his own, grateful for that solid touch. Crowley started the car and steered them out of the carpark, and onto the long drive leading to the access road.

They were some miles down the road, back on the motorway, before Aziraphale thought to ask, "However were you able to find me?" He caught a glimpse of teeth as Crowley pulled a face. "What is it?"

"Was hoping you wouldn't ask," Crowley admitted.

"Why not?"

"Some of it's pretty weird."

Aziraphale snorted. "Crowley, we live in a world of humans. What could be weirder?"

"God weird. At least I think it's Her. Has to be, really."

"Oh." Aziraphale took a fortifying breath. "Go on, then."

Over the next few miles Crowley told him about the dream he'd had while napping, in which Aziraphale was kidnapped from his bookshop by Sandalphon and Uriel, forced into a black taxicab driven by a demon ("I wondered!" Aziraphale interjected.), and taken to an abandoned crematory. How, waking from the dream that had seemed horrifyingly real, Crowley had immediately rung him and, receiving no answer, raced to the bookshop, found Aziraphale gone, and his sword glowing in the corner of his backroom ("Glowing? Really?" "Mm mm."). About the mad compulsion that had seized him to pick it up and take it with him, which he did, despite an instant of panic that an angelic sword would render him armless, or, at the very least, handless. Of his anguish: if Aziraphale had been taken to a crematory by his enemies, how could he possibly find out which one in time to help? And how the woman, the one Aziraphale had given the Austen to ("I did not _give_ it to her.") came running up to him as he stormed out of the shop, telling him that, not three minutes before, she had seen that nice Mr. Fell being shoved into a taxicab by a bald man, who directed an odd-looking taxi driver ("Far too young to have The Knowledge," she sniffed.) to Eastlitch Crematory, after which she had turned around, blank-eyed, and walked away. By then Crowley was in his car, the sword on the seat beside him, and in seconds thundering down the road, bullying other drivers out of his way, and calculating the quickest route out of London to Eastlitch.

"Ah." Aziraphale could think of nothing else to say.

"Quite."

After a few moments spent watching the verge zoom by, Aziraphale began to piece it together. "Let me get this straight. You dreamed my kidnapping _before_ it happened."

"So it would seem."

"And my sword. Well, it _called_ to you?"

"Yup."

"But it didn't start to burn you until just a while ago?"

"That's right." Crowley gave him a crooked grin. "Limited time offer, I reckon."

Aziraphale looked puzzled, not really getting the reference. "And Miss Ashton—she saw what happened. Which is unlikely, as no one paid the least attention when I was being carried out of the shop. I thought they were concealing their actions in front of humans."

"As we do."

"Then the question is …." Aziraphale ground to a halt, trying to make sense of everything Crowley had told him.

"The question is?" Crowley prodded.

"The Almighty interceded on my—on our—behalf. But, why?"

"Don't care."

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "You don't care?"

"It's all the same to me." Crowley's knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel. "If She wanted to watch me lose my mind trying to get to you, done. If She wanted us to choose between killing those two villains or letting them go, done. If She wanted to see if I'd hold your bloody flaming sword to protect you, done." Crowley's voice rose louder and angrier with each sentence. "If She wants to tell me, in person, why She helped us, I don't care!" Crowley shouted the last three words, as if the Almighty might be hard of hearing. He sucked in a deep breath and yelled a blasphemy at the driver of the car ahead of them, who had dared to tap on the brakes to avoid running into the vehicle in front of it. Gunning the Bentley into the next lane, he then swerved across the motorway to the far lane to get around it.

"I see," Aziraphale said, after a couple of moments of tense silence. He absently scratched at his temple, then laid his palm on Crowley's leg, reveling in the long, strong muscles, thinking, _Mine_. "It's possible that She helped us for all of those reasons." He set his teeth together and squinted as the Bentley shot between two slower moving vehicles. "I, for one, am grateful. Even if we only live long enough to discorporate very spectacularly on the motorway."

Crowley's response was mumbled, though it had all the heft and vigor of something very rude. But his foot eased off the pedal, and soon they were traveling at—for Crowley—a reasonable motorway speed.

They were several miles further along, when Crowley muttered something, his voice pitched so low he might have been speaking to himself.

"Hm?" Lost in his own thoughts, Aziraphale was slow to recognize the significance of what he had heard. "Crowley—"

The demon looked sidelong at him, ignoring their surroundings, the lane they were in, the signs ahead, the other vehicles traveling at speed around them, and for once Aziraphale did not complain about his inattention. "Five seconds, Aziraphale." He smiled, a strange, terrible smile. "I would have killed them all."

He turned back to the road without another word. But he reached over and placed his left hand on Aziraphale's right one and held it tightly for a long time. Aziraphale, his eyes bright, said nothing.

Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the outskirts of London. They stopped for a pub meal off the main road. While Aziraphale ate, Crowley sipped tea and took a few bites of Aziraphale's shepherd's pie. He was uncommunicative and Aziraphale guessed that he was still, some part of him, in that crematory in Eastlitch. But it was Crowley who, on their way out, spotted the patisserie a few doors down, and insisted that they go in. He waited, dark and looming, while Aziraphale made his selection, which Crowley then doubled. In London, Aziraphale asked to collect a few things from the bookshop, since it appeared that it had been decided—without discussion—that they were going to Crowley's flat. Crowley agreed with a grunt and sat in the Bentley while Aziraphale stored the sword in the corner where it had stood before, and then quickly threw a few items into a small travel case.

At last they walked through the door into the refuge of Crowley's home. While Crowley carried Aziraphale's valise into the bedroom, Aziraphale tucked the boxed eclairs in the refrigerator. When he turned around, Crowley was standing in front of him, silent and grim-faced. Aziraphale accepted the hand offered to him and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom. Crowley stopped at the side of the bed and folded Aziraphale into his arms. With his lips against his forehead—the side that had bled—he whispered, "I need you, angel. Right now."

Aziraphale would refuse him nothing, even if Crowley wanted only a willing body to serve his passion. And at first there did seem to be a kind of desperation in Crowley's fondling caresses and his wanton kisses. But it wasn't long before Aziraphale came to realize that Crowley's desire was focused entirely on him, on rousing him, pleasuring him, bringing him to a devastating release. When Aziraphale attempted to love him back, he was thwarted, pinned to the mattress, while Crowley undid him yet again with gentle, clever hands and soft, knowing mouth.

Eventually, in a moment of stillness, Aziraphale was finally able to reciprocate. He gentled the demon with slow worshipful kisses and soothing touches, and low, murmured endearments. And then he began to cherish him as he himself had been cherished, using Crowley's helpless arousal to take him out of himself, to incite him to the point of mindlessness. Oblivion was what he needed most just now, and Aziraphale ensured that he got it. At last, tangled together, and cocooned within the bedclothes, they settled. Crowley sighed, "Angel." And, exhausted, they slept.

Sometime well after midnight, they woke. Crowley went to the kitchen to make tea, leaving Aziraphale to tidy sheets and pillows. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, Aziraphale rummaged in his bag, eyes gleaming as he brought out a bright white silk nightshirt. He lifted it over his head, filled the sleeves with his arms, and shifted just enough to encourage it to fall around him like a cloud. It covered him to the ankles, with a front, button-sealed placket that ran from the base of his throat to below his sternum. He had just done up the last button when movement caught his eye.

"What is that?" Crowley had come to a stop in the doorway, a tray with tea fixings and one of the chocolate eclairs balanced in his hands.

Aziraphale held out his arms. "It's silk."

"Ah." Crowley set the tray on the dresser, giving Aziraphale an interested look as the angel padded across the carpet to join him. "Bit old fashioned, isn't it?"

"Well, it is old," Aziraphale replied, adding milk to his tea. "Bought it in Paris. After things calmed down." He took a bite of the eclair, chewed with a beatific expression, then swallowed with a low blissful murmur. He licked chocolate and crème anglaise from his lips, and took another bite.

Crowley was staring at him. "Couple of hundred years ago, then?" 

"About that, yes." Gesturing toward the bed, Crowley took the mug from him and returned it after Aziraphale, happily finishing a second bite of eclair, was comfortably propped upright with pillows at his back, silk-clad legs stretched out in front of him. Crowley sat on the edge of the mattress. He pleated a small length of silk between finger and thumb, exploring its luxuriousness.

"And you need this why?"

"I get cold."

"Well, I can take care of that." Crowley curled his hand around an ankle, watching Aziraphale's somewhat wary reaction. Very slowly, as though not to alarm him, he started up his leg, tracing the sharp ridge of the shin to the knee. "It is nice," he murmured, eyes falling half closed as he concentrated on the sensation of flesh-warmed silk. Knee, thigh, his fingers went over them at length, pausing altogether at the join of upper thighs, where, with the very tips of his fingers, he outlined the shape of what lay nestled there—"Oh, very nice," he purred—and continued upward, over the swell of abdomen, across the expanse of rapidly rising and falling chest, all the way to Aziraphale's throat, where careful fingers undid the first few buttons, before gliding sinuously beneath the fabric.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said plaintively, breathing hard, "I will spill my tea."

"Can't have that," Crowley replied with a small, dark laugh. He bent closer to place a lush kiss on Aziraphale's mouth, considerately licking one corner where there was a trace of chocolate. "Drink up, angel. I'm looking forward to this."


	6. A Better Occasion

Pallid light filtered through the thick, age-worn windows of A. Z. Fell and Co. A few regulars were browsing the bookcases and a few confused customers, who had mistaken the entrance for the shop next door, enjoyed a moment inside, out of the cutting morning breeze.

Aziraphale sat at his desk on the main floor. He was sifting through days of mail, organizing a small order to be added to the catalogue, and generally finding his way back into his old routine. The last few days had utterly disrupted his sense of time, so that he scarcely knew which day of the week it was, much less the month—though the chill in the air pointed to one of the winter ones—and the year: well, it scarcely mattered anymore, now that they were past the threat of the End Time. He was fine with any of them.

The bell over the door chimed. Aziraphale had ignored it most of the morning, concentrating on the tasks in front of him. This time, sensing another angelic presence, he not only looked up but lurched to his feet. "Gabriel." 

The archangel stopped several feet away, always so much larger and more imposing than Aziraphale remembered. He raised his hands, palms out. His face, pleasantly neutral, signaled peace as resolutely as did his hands. "Aziraphale," he said cordially. "I'm only here to talk."

Courtesy required that they conduct any conversation in private. Aziraphale gestured politely toward the backroom. Gabriel strode ahead, as graceful as he was composed. And as dangerous as he was angry: Aziraphale could sense controlled wrath emanating from him like heat waves from a furnace. He gathered himself, blowing out a deep breath, quite aware that Gabriel's show of neutrality meant nothing, and that he must be on his guard. Removing his spectacles at the last moment, Aziraphale followed.

It was a small space, and Gabriel seemed to fill it. He stood next to Aziraphale's desk, disinterestedly studying the spine of the book Aziraphale was currently reading. "Gabriel?" Aziraphale prompted him quietly.

Gabriel shifted to face him. His eyes narrowed and he regarded Aziraphale, unspeaking, for a seemingly endless moment. His intent, Aziraphale knew, after centuries of the same treatment, was to make him feel small and inconsequential and terribly nervous. It was usually quite effective. This time, Aziraphale simply waited, fingers clasped loosely at his waist. Gabriel smiled. "Aziraphale," he started, then stopped himself. "Your friend, the demon Crowley, is he here?" 

"No, he—" But there came the sound of a throat being cleared, and Aziraphale looked round.

"Actually, he is." Crowley emerged from the small alcove that Aziraphale used as a kitchenette, carrying a mug of tea. He walked past Gabriel, who actually took a scalded step backward, as if fearing some demonic contamination, and handed the mug to Aziraphale.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said automatically. "I didn't see you come in."

"You were busy." Crowley jerked his head in the direction of the back of the building, where the stair was located. "So I went up for a nap." He was casually positioned between them, resting back against the small table where they shared whisky and wine, the heels of his palms braced on the edge. To Gabriel, who had overseen this exchange with thinly veiled disgust, he said, sharply, "What do you want?"

Gabriel responded more to his dangerous tone than his demeanor, which was pointedly relaxed. He said, warningly, "Stand down, demon." The tension in the room skyrocketed. Aziraphale could sense Crowley's coiled readiness, though he stirred not an inch. But it was Gabriel who defused things, consciously clasping his hands loosely in front of him, lowering his shoulders, and calming his deadly gaze. "I'd introduce myself, but I believe we've already met."

"Yeah. We have." With a reproachful smile, Crowley remarked, "Hell Fire in Heaven. You lot should be ashamed of yourselves."

Gabriel's lips parted but no sound came out. Being castigated by a demon for immorality was apparently a new experience for him. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "It was a mistake."

"A mistake." Crowley's eyes narrowed. "Lucky for Aziraphale here that you discovered your mistake before almost murdering him. Oh, wait—you didn't."

Gabriel blinked slowly. Aziraphale, watching, frozen and silent, wondered if Crowley was deliberately baiting him, or if he was really just that furious. "I'm well aware of that, Crowley. Mistake is the wrong word, you're right." He held himself rigidly composed, even though he had seemed on the verge of violence only minutes before. "It was a misjudgment on my part. I am here to apologize." Somehow, though, it came out sounding more like a threat than an apology. He turned his tense gaze on Aziraphale, who raised his brows but said nothing. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale."

"What about your minions, Thug One and Thug Two?" Crowley asked. "Where are they?"

"They are spending some time in the Basement," Gabriel replied, his words clipped.

"The Basement!" Despite his loathing for Uriel and Sandalphon, Aziraphale could not repress a sympathetic shudder.

"Reflecting on their choices." Gabriel paused, his mouth pinched. It was pretty obvious, Aziraphale thought, that he was not responsible for their punishment. Nevertheless, Gabriel explained, "They acted without my express direction or approval. I thank you—" he spoke from between his teeth "—for not killing them. They regret their actions and hope you will forgive them."

"Forgive them!" Crowley laughed. "They were only following your lead. If not your 'express direction.'"

"And I was wrong." The archangel's cheeks were hectic with color. He ground his teeth, staring at Crowley as if he wished he could smite him on the spot. After a moment, he continued more temperately, "As was Lord Beelzebub, for whom I speak here. It was a grievous mistake; misjudgment; bad, bad, thing; whatever you want to call it. Heaven and Hell apologize to you both. There will be no more attempted reprisals for what you did. Even though—" He caught himself. "There will be no more reprisals. You have our word."

A slow, knowing grin spread across Crowley's face. "You must've had a right old bollocking."

"Something like that," the archangel granted grimly. Focusing his words on Aziraphale, he went on, "I doubt that I will see you—" he flicked a baleful glance at Crowley "—either of you, again." And then with a mean glint in his eyes, he announced, "The Almighty is redoing the org chart."

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Oh, dear."

"Your _new_ essential duties will remain the same. For now." With the point of his chin, he indicated both of them. "I understand She has already spoken to you about that?" 

Aziraphale stammered, "Yes?"

"Right. Well." A wide and very self-satisfied smile formed on Gabriel's face. "You have a new intermediary. Both of you." He held his palm about four feet off the ground. "About this tall? Lives in Oxfordshire."

"Ah." 

Gabriel scrubbed his hands together. "I think that's everything." And for the first time since entering the bookshop, the fullness of his fury was on view. "You two have turned Heaven and Hell upside down." His voice was guttural and harsh. "You have no friends in either place. If you ever need help, forget it. Try talking to your human buddies. See how much good that does you." His brows lowered, and there were sparks in his eyes. "And as for Her— She'll forget about you. Not only will She forget about you, She'll—" 

A massive crack of thunder, the kind that instantly follows a dangerously close lightning strike, shook the building and caused the lights to flicker. Gabriel's mouth snapped shut. He took a moment to bring himself under control, rearranging his features into a more socially acceptable expression. "That's all." He brushed past Crowley and would have run over Aziraphale if the angel hadn't stepped smartly to the side.

His footfalls rang hard on the wood floors as he stalked out of the shop. The bell over the door pealed noisily, and then the door itself slammed shut. "Your tea's getting cold," Crowley said helpfully. "I'll make sure he's gone."

Aziraphale went to his chair and sank into it. Raising the mug to his lips, he discovered that his hands were shaking. He stared at the opposite wall with wide eyes, utterly nonplussed. 

Crowley came back into the room. "He's gone. So are most of your customers." He took the mug from Aziraphale's lax fingers and helped himself to a long draught.

"How long have you been here?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yonks. Told you, I took a nap." He sprawled on the sofa, long legs spread out in front of him. "So, Heaven and Hell are sorry, are they? Where was She when they tried to kill us the first time?" He handed the mug back to Aziraphale, stretching across the small space between them. 

"The slip from Agnes's book," Aziraphale replied at length. "Agnes wrote it, but She—" he pointed timidly upward, really not wanting another round of that sort of attention "—made sure we got it."

"Really? Not just a coincidence?"

"Unlikely."

"What the heaven is She thinking?" Crowley said, exasperated.

Aziraphale contemplated his tea, his brow furrowed. "I've been wondering that myself. If we'd ignored that prophecy, we'd be dead. And if Adam hadn't been a decent chap? Well—the world would have been obliterated. It all seems to come down to free will, doesn't it? Choices. With a nudge, here and there, from the Almighty Herself. Occasionally."

"Which is not like Her. She's been very hands-on lately."

"Yes. It is unsettling."

"I think," Crowley said, "that She really doesn't give a toss about the earth or all the people on it. It's us she's messing with."

"No?" Aziraphale was quietly appalled.

"Aziraphale." Crowley regarded him with some indulgence. "When has She really shown any concern for them? Wars, famine, torture, murder, rape, slavery. And what they're doing to their own planet. They're like an ant farm experiment to Her."

"Crowley!"

"You know it's true. Despite their laws, their religions, even their belief in Her, they do what they like. And She lets them. And a fair number of them like to do—or cause others to do—some pretty nasty things to each other. When has She ever stopped that? Well, since, you know, early days. Really early days."

"But She allowed us to stop it. The end of the world."

"Adam stopped the end of the world," Crowley reminded him, not unkindly. "You and I just … spelled things out for him. So he'd know how to use his power to protect what he loves." He sat up all at once, the conversation apparently ended for him. "Time for a drink. All right with you, if I—?"

"Yes, fine." Aziraphale paid little attention as Crowley snapped his fingers and an instant later held a bottle of something vintage from Aziraphale's wine cellar. Dark thoughts crowded his mind. What Crowley had said was all too true. The Almighty's greatest gift to humankind—free will—had also proven to be one of its greatest weaknesses. And angels, who were supposed to provide guidance and protection, seemed no longer effective. Because they couldn't counter basic human nature? Or because—? "The org chart!" Aziraphale burst out.

Crowley startled, almost fumbling the glass he was filling. Glaring, he handed it to Aziraphale. "Go on, then. What's your great insight?"

After an appreciative taste, "Mmm, good choice," Aziraphale repeated, "Gabriel said She's redoing the org chart. She hasn't done that since—"

"Ever?"

"Ever," Aziraphale agreed. "Why were we created?"

Crowley pushed himself into the corner of the sofa, one leg bent, heel digging into the coverlet, the other leg extended, foot braced on the floor. He took a sip from his glass, savoring the dry white, then tipped his head against the back of the sofa. Aziraphale's abrupt change of subject seemed not to bother him at all. "Briefly? To help mankind. To look after the earth, and all its creatures, really."

"We haven't been doing much of that lately, though, have we? Well, you and I have. Sort of. And Adam. But the others? They've been so intent on their war to end all wars that they haven't been doing their job."

"You think—" Crowley pointed at Aziraphale with his glass "—that the Almighty was letting the clock run out. That She never wanted them, Heaven or Hell, to follow the Divine Plan at all. That She wanted them to remember why they were created in the first place and to act accordingly?"

"Maybe?"

"I like your conviction."

"Well, I certainly can't know what Her plan really was. Or is. Or how the new org chart will be drawn up. But maybe She intends to shake things up. Get everyone back on track."

"And Hell? What is 'on track' for Hell?"

"Hell seems perfectly happy to work with Heaven, given the right incentive—or should I say, temptation. And, look at us."

Crowley finished his glass in a single swallow, and set it on the table at the side of the sofa. Rising fluidly, he held out his hand. Aziraphale took it without hesitation, and was pulled up alongside him. A long, welcoming kiss later, Crowley said, "Shall I chase out the rest of your clientele? You can lock up and we can finish the bottle upstairs."

Aziraphale nodded.

* * *

"No."

A moment of quiet, disturbed only by the soft rustle of pages and the brush of fabric as one ankle repositioned itself over the other.

"This?"

"Not with me."

Another moment of quiet, more pages turning, text passed over in favor of illustrations.

"How about—?"

"Good Lord. That's just—!"

"Yeah. Okay. Not that one."

Quiet fell once more.

"This?"

Aziraphale folded his book shut, and set it with excessive care on the table next to the arm of the sofa. He also slipped the book out of Crowley's hands despite his token, "Oi!" and balanced it on top of the other. "Maybe that one," Aziraphale agreed vaguely.

"Really?" Crowley, his head comfortably propped up against Aziraphale's knee, gave him a happy, upside down grin. He was lying on the sofa in Aziraphale's upstairs apartment, honoring, in the main, Aziraphale's request to be allowed to finish the current chapter in the book he was reading. Crowley had brought along _The Joy of Gay Sex_ to bide his time while Aziraphale read. He didn't seem to think that asking his opinion on various sexual positions—since it applied to both of them, after all—could be considered interrupting. 

"Apparently you want to talk," Aziraphale said. "I have a question for you. A personal one."

Crowley's smile curdled. "I bet I know what it is." He filled his lungs with a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course, I love you, Aziraphale. You don't need to ask."

"Oh!" It was Aziraphale's turn to smile, and his smile was blindingly bright. 

Crowley groaned. "That wasn't the question."

"Well, no. But I do love the answer."

"What, then?"

Aziraphale lightly outlined Crowley's mouth with the tip of a finger. "That night—when we started all this: I invited you in. Why didn't you stay?"

Several expressions flashed across Crowley's face. Dismay. Irritation. And even, Aziraphale thought, a fleeting sheepishness. "Wasn't ready," Crowley muttered at last.

Aziraphale tilted his head to one side, silently questioning.

"No experience," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "So I—" He waggled his head, pulled a face that could be interpreted in all too many ways.

Aziraphale asked, very calmly, "So you—went out … and got some? Experience?" He added a flourish to the last word in an attempt to disguise the sudden twist in his heart.

Crowley's eyes focused sharply. "Yeah, I did." He cocked one brow high in a "so what?" expression. And then he rolled up off the sofa, swung round, and lifted himself onto Aziraphale's lap in one lithe movement. Lodging his knees on either side of his thighs and with hands gripping the wooden trim on the back of the sofa, he curled forward to take Aziraphale's mouth in a sweet, stirring kiss. "There was this angel," he said. "Lured me to his hotel room." Crowley's mouth was warm and tasted of wine. "Had his wicked way with me. All night long." He put his lips to the sensitive skin just below Aziraphale's ear, and began to suck lightly. "All night long, angel."

Squirming, Aziraphale turned his face aside so that Crowley could work his way down the length of his throat. "He never!"

"Too right, he did." Crowley raised his head, gently nipped Aziraphale's bottom lip. His eyes were bright with intent, all of his concentration fixed on Aziraphale.

"I thought it was me." Aziraphale's breathing was becoming erratic. "That you didn't—"

"I did. Do. Always. Can we just shut up and—?"

They did.

* * * 

In the darkest hour of morning, Crowley chivvied his partner out of a light sleep, bringing him fully awake with a whispered question.

"I don't know if we should do that." Aziraphale's eyes were wide with uncertainty.

"Why not? No law against it," Crowley argued persuasively. "Come on, angel. Just a quick one."

Still a little reluctant, but also more than a little excited, Aziraphale nodded. He climbed off the sofa—and Crowley—and dropped a hand to help him up. They stood face to face, mouths softly meeting, softly exploring. At their backs, their wings unfurled, spread wide, and began to rise and fall, very carefully, in the confined space. Papers stirred, and swirled to the floor. A transcendent light filled the room with a soft glow.

"Just a quick one," Aziraphale reminded him, eyes half-closed, his entire being focused on the sweep of his wings and the demon's warmth.

"Just one," Crowley agreed. He took Aziraphale's hand, and they began to rise, shedding their earthly bonds as they went. Grinning widely, Crowley launched upward, Aziraphale shimmering at his side. As celestial creatures they took flight. Above the rain, above the clouds, higher, and higher still, they soared. Amidst the stars, in the blackness of the heavens, they shone.

End

**Author's Note:**

> So just some odds and ends--  
\- There is no Eastlitch, and therefore no Eastlitch Crematory.  
\- Why did Crowley drive to Eastlitch to rescue Aziraphale when he apparently has the ability to "transport" himself? (For that matter, why did he drive to Tadfield?) As in canon, it's cool to have the Bentley handy, I guess.  
\- I adore Hastur, but he's a stinker.  



End file.
